I sat in the parking lot of my pediatrician’s office considering what I had just been told. I silently started counting off the number of medical devices that have been prescribed to my children:
- The dreaded c-pap machine for my son’s sleep apnea.
- The nebulizer to treat the twins (and myself) for asthma.
- A stethoscope that I acquired after my son’s bout with Respiratory Syncytial Virus (RSV).
- An ophthalmoscope – don’t ask how I ended up with one of those.
- 3 sets of crutches.
- A wheelchair.
- A hearing aid to combat my son’s tinnitus.
- A blood pressure monitor to keep an eye on my blood pressure.
What is wrong with me? Why am I not willing to look at the situation for what it is? I own enough medical equipment to start my own small pediatric practice. I have medically complex children. Not one, but two! And one who has serious mobility issues at times.
I sat there blotting my tears away, and trying to convince myself that marking the box “Permanent Disability” didn’t mean that I was giving something up. Marking that box would mean accepting a truth that everyone can see, but that I was unwilling to admit to.
After much self-talk, coaxing and cajoling, I eventually resolved myself to checking off that dreaded box.
I unfolded the application for the handicapped parking permit and saw that the pediatrician had already checked off that box. I silently thanked her and drove to get our new permanent handicapped parking permit.