SAND IN YOUR CRAW

"Sandy Skitch"
Photo by Skitch

THEN:

        Most kids don't like to eat their vegetables, but I did not like to eat my meats. I stayed anemic and weak. I caught every "bug" coming and going. Add to this the fact that my parents were traumatized from losing their first blond daughter to pneumonia and now they had a second blond that was sickly. You can understand that I spent a lot of time at the clinic. They hustled me to the doctor every time I sneezed, and I sneezed a lot! 

        In those days doctors didn't pussyfoot around. If you had an ailment you usually got a nice hot shot of penicillin. I got dozens of them. In my child's mind, I believed I could fight the nurses off when they came at me with those needles. I battled with the exact same fervor when they took my temperature because, back then, they did that by sticking a mercury thermometer up door number two and, though I was nearly a baby, I found that a most humiliating experience! I could not imagine that I was supposed to cooperate with that. I was sure I was supposed to fight that indignity with everything in me. Therefore, many trips to the doctor included two fits from a very frantic little Skitch, one prior to seeing the doctor and one after. The nurses soon offered to take my temperature under my arm if I would "hold real still like a big girl." I don't know that any three year old could ever sit as motionless as I did that day. I was a statue for the three minutes they had that thing under my arm. I did not speak, and I barely breathed. I was not going to ruin the opportunity to save myself all that prodding! But they offered me no relief from the torment of the red hot penicillin shots, and I continued to wage wild war with my oppressors, convinced that  I could win. And I was right; I would have soon succeeded if I'd stayed on that course. At three years of age, I can remember it taking two nurses and my mother to hold me down long enough and still enough to get the medicine in my system.  

        The next time I was sick my mother, who had always taken me to the doctor, sighed and said that, likely, the doctor would give me another shot. She reminded my dad that it had taken three people to hold me down the last time. She complained to him that she did not know how many more times she could help people wrestle me down and force a shot in me. She said it completely broke her heart when I screamed and fought like a wild child. Pop told her it did not have to be that way, and those words set him up for her challenge, "Oh really? Well then, you take her and see if you have any better luck than I do." Even at three, I could hear the dare in her voice. But I did not understand that working with him would make her feel like I liked him better. I loved them both very much, but Dad had a way of communicating with me as though I was an adult. I wasn't an adult but I certainly was an old soul; I responded quite positively to that vote of confidence, that admission of humanity. 

        I remember thinking that going with Daddy would be new and different. I remember that I still dreaded the doctor and feared the shot. Dad carried me into the clinic on his shoulders, probably relying on the novelty of being up so high to distract me from my fear of entering the clinic. Little did he know that I would have gone with him into places infinitely more frightening than a doctor's office. I feared nothing when I was in his arms. 

        While he walked he said, "Possumfrog, Your mommy says you've been fighting those nurses when they give you shots. Now, you know they are trying to help you get better. Why do you fight them like that?" 

        I felt a wash of shame followed immediately by a wave of righteousness. "It hurts Daddy. Those old shots sting and burn so much!" 

        "I know they do, but you don't have to throw a fit. That just gets you all upset, the nurses all upset, your mommy all upset. It makes a bad situation even worse." 

        He walked through the glass doors and signed me in at the registration desk. Then he sat in one of the hard plastic chairs and put me in one beside him. I'd hoped he had given up the topic, but he looked at me and picked it up again, "You don't have to pitch a fit." 

        I wiggled out of my seat and stood in front of him, leaning against his leg. In a low voice I said, "But it hurts me, Daddy." 

        "I know, but you're strong. You can take it. You have sand in your craw! I take shots and I don't cry. You know what I do?" 

        I shook my head. I was all eyes and ears. This might be the secret of all secrets!

        "I take a deep breath, I grit my teeth, and shut my eyes..." He paused and demonstrated. He let out his breath after a few seconds, "And it's over so fast, and the pain is all gone. I don't cry because I have sand in my craw too." 

        I remember staring into his bright blue eyes and thinking about how much I wanted to be just like this man. If he had sand in his craw then, by golly, I needed sand in my craw too! 

        He added, "Now, maybe they won't even give you a shot, but if they do will you try it for me?"  

        I nodded. Of course I would. 

        The doctor prescribed a shot, just like my mom predicted, and sent me to the nurses station to get it. When I stretched out on the table obligingly for the nurse she threw a puzzled look at my dad. I only saw it because she was nearly blocking my view of him. I did not take my eyes off my daddy.  
        He said, "You can do it. I'll tell you when to take the breath, grit your teeth, and close your eyes." 

        He watched the nurse behind me intently. In a moment he said, "Now!" I sucked in a deep breath, gritted my teeth together so hard it made my head hurt, and closed my eyes. I showed my teeth like I'd seen him do. What a face I must have made!  

        The shot was hot but quick, over before I had time to throw a fit. When I opened my eyes, Dad was smiling at me proudly. Sure as shooting! His girl definitely had lots of sand in her craw! That's what he told the nurse, and my mother, and loads of other people from that day on.  

        I cried over one more shot in my life and Daddy understood that one. I was nine years old and in the hospital. They woke me up with a penicillin shot in my thigh. I'd had a long eight days in the hospital and been poked and prodded until I was exhausted and raw. Daddy rubbed my head and said, "That's okay, Possumfrog. They didn't give you time to take a breath and grit your teeth. You still have plenty of sand in your craw." 

        As an adult, I used to wonder if my dad would have loved me any less if I'd continued to cry over pain. I had my feelings hurt over the very idea for a while. Aren't adults silly sometimes? Now I know that he would not have loved me any less. Dad didn't teach me how to deal with pain for his own sake. He didn't teach me because it humiliated him when a three year old cried. He taught me for my sake. He shared a valuable life skill that had seen him through many a hard spot. He was passing something on he thought I would need, and he was right. I've needed every single grain of that sand he put in my craw!