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Good Cop, Bad Cop – Part 1

Is there any way that we will ever get used to this?

Is there going to be a year where I’ll be able to say: “We are in the clear Baboy. We don’t need to do more blood tests.”?

Or will his screams in Pathology, continue to create nightmares as we sleep?!

As daddy carries him in… I begin to fill out the paperwork, and I politely let the nurse know that he is a difficult client – as I know what’s coming.

The moment we step in and he sees the familiar tubes and green arm tie, he starts sobbing with words like “I don’t want to do this!” – the words are on repeat before he changes to other sentences, with the hope that if he says the right thing – we will let him off the hook.

On the bed, I sit next to him and explain what is going to happen, but only seconds before – he finds strength in watching and explanation in trauma situations. He sobs as we try and keep him still for the procedure with dad on one side and me on the other. I count off the colors: we are at yellow – now we have purple and then 2 left. Yellow again and a small purple – then we are done.

I guess it doesn’t get any easier, yet all he wanted was someone to blame. We casually say to him: “It’s okay Baboy – blame me.” As the calmness settles in, I promise him that I will never let them do blood tests if it’s not necessary – though I know that there will be more moments like this – a lot more in future in fact. I wonder if he will ever get used to this, will there be a point where it doesn’t completely destroy my soul and rip all that is left of me, out of my body as I hear him begging and pleading.

Dad steps in and comes to his rescue and makes it a little better, while giving Quade the room to complain about the ordeal.

I guess there has to be a bad cop in every story… I am just sorry it is me.