Perspecitve

Gaining a bit of perspective seems to whack me in the head when I least expect it. I spent last night tossing and turning, worrying like only a mother can about Juni's impending upper GI study this morning at CHKD. I worried that he'd be scared, wouldn't drink the chalky goo, and what they'd find. I was worried we'd oversleep.
He's had tiny, intermittent belly aches for months. The pediatrician wants a definite diagnosis of reflux before he begins treatment. Not a big deal.
I rushed into the childrens' hospital, and stopped dead in my tracks. The first hallways read oncology. Then a sign for the neonatal ICU. My life, and my child, it seems, is charmed in comparison. We headed to radiology.
Juni bounced off the walls, alone in the waiting room. My worries erupted into stress about Juni not behaving. I know. Ridiculous. Before his appointment a 5-year-old girl entered, grasping her mother's hand while she struggled to lift her toes off of the floor while she walked. She pushed a hand-me-down wheelchair. She was waiting for a CT.
Another mother came in with an infant; maybe four months old.
A father brought his son, a teenager, who couldn't speak.
Juni had an 18-month-old little girl attach herself to him. I don't know what procedure she and her parents waited for, but Juni and I could both hear her screaming down the hall.
All Juni had to do was drink apple-flavored chalk goo. And watch it go through his tummy. He thought it was cool. For Juni, it was a special trip. For many children, it's their way of life. Hospitals. Rehab. Worry.
I left CHKD with a new perspective: I am now unequivocally grateful that my child can talk to loud, bounce too much and move too many toys in the radiology waiting room.