Roughly one month ago, I took my son for his 11-year check-up with his pediatrician. Yes, he’s almost 12. Don’t judge me.
When the doctor walked into the exam room she smiled, reached out to hug me and in a booming voice asked, “Did you think we’d ever see 11?”
No. No, I didn’t.
What I also didn’t see is that we’d get this far only to to need another specialist just shy of his teen years. After slowly discontinuing to see the gastroenterologist, geneticist, and urologist, and with still-regular appointments with an ENT, opthamologist, orthodontist, and cardiologist, the last thing we ever wanted to do was add another doctor to the mix.
But, my son is what we like to call a “peanut.” He is 48″ tall and weighs 53 pounds. If we were dishonest people, he’d be getting free buffets all over town. Not long ago, a women at a salon tried to play peek-a-boo with him.
In some ways, his small stature is a good thing. It gives technology time to make progress on his necessary heart surgery, I never have to spend money on new clothes because he wears the same thing year after year, and he can still fit in my lap and snuggle up for movie night.
On the other hand, if he hits puberty and hasn’t grown enough, he never will. So after some x-rays and blood work, it has been determined that he needs to see an endocrinologist at the end of the month.
At this point, we only know there will be extensive tests and long conversations and walks on the beach with his cardiologist. He is the one doctor to rule them all. As we have before, we will put our faith in the hands of a medical team who we trust with making life-altering decisions for our little boy. No pressure, fellas.
And, in the end, it’s possible that our peanut will grow into a full-sized legume.