Dr. Weaver Worm

When Annika was first home from her two transplants, we worried about how she would react going in to see her regular pediatrician. She was so happy to finally be home, would she be scared of this new medical environment? Would the stethoscopes and otoscopes and boxes full of alchohol swabs remind her of a place she most certainly did not want to be? With much trepidation, we took her to her first "well-child" checkup in eons, all those routine appointments having been skipped given the intense medical scrutiny lavished upon a seriously ill child.
continue reading

It went well. Very well. Annika loved her pediatrician's soothing voice and the way he eased up to her, rather than rushing into the room and feeling up the size of her spleen and the hardness of her liver with the eagerness of a resident on too little sleep and too many patients. A few days later, Annika was playing out in the yard, digging in her assigned area of dirt while I attacked weeds. It was spring, and the ground was especially easy to dig in because of a recent rainfall. As I tugged at yet another weed with runners extending, evidently, for miles, Annika came over with her hands cupped together.

"A worm!"
"Cool. Can I see it?"
"Yes. It's a Dr. Weaver worm."

Just like that, I knew we could never switch pediatricians. Because when your kids start naming their first worms after their pediatrician, you know you've got a keeper.

~~submitted by moreena