Adventures in Nuclear Medicine

A little over a year and a half ago, we spent some quality time at Children's Hospital with our son, Josiah. So when we returned this morning with our 3-month-old Adam, it was a familiar scene. Just a slightly different cast of characters.

The MAG3 is a procedure performed to observe the function of the kidneys. Both of Adam's kidneys have shown to have an enlarged renal pelvis (the part that collects urine before it is released into the bladder), and his doctor ordered this test to find out why, and also to determine if it's something that will need to be fixed or something he will grow out of.

We did a little research and asked some questions and felt that we were fairly well prepared for what to expect from this day. We knew that he would have a catheter put in place to keep his bladder empty. We knew that he would need an IV to inject the material that would be traced by the scanning equipment through his little body. We knew that he would need to lie "still" for the better part of an hour, if not more. We knew that the staff at Children's is excellent and we could trust them. And we knew that it would be just as hard on John and I to watch as it would be on Adam to be watched.

What I was not prepared for was the sheer intimidation of the machinery when we were escorted into the room. I kind of had something in mind like an ultrasound machine in a little exam room. Maybe a few computer monitors and some wires. And of course a paper-covered table.

But the door opened before us into a room that seemed the size of a gymnasium, and the site of The Machine literally took my breath away, not to mention a wall covered with computers, and a door labeled "DANGER: RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS." Just to think this was necessary to look at the inner workings of my tiny son.


But then I looked around and saw Dumbo and Winnie the Pooh on the walls. And I saw the smiles on the faces of our wonderful technicians. And none of it phased Adam who seemed to be grinning with his whole body at anyone who would come close enough for him to see.

You know, it wasn't fun -- being strapped down for over an hour, the placement of the catheter, the concept of nuclear medicine, and the difficulty of finding a vein for his IV (who knew that baby fat made it so difficult? -- oh, and does my boy have rolls!).

But none of that is what brought me to tears.

It was the kids.

It was the families walking through the lobby, or waiting their turn in admissions along with us. It was the kids with casts and leg braces and wheelchairs. Kids with masks and rolling IVs. Kids with oxygen tubes. Kids who were visibly ill. Kids who clearly were used to this place because of how often they were there.

I remember having these same thoughts and feelings a year and a half ago, but in the distraction of getting Adam there this morning, I had forgotten. And I was not prepared. It broke my heart all over again.

We don't know what tomorrow brings, but we are relieved that this morning is behind us, and as grateful as we are to have a place like Children's Hospital so close to home, we hope and pray that we won't have the necessity to become too familiar with that amazing place.

I hugged all three of my 'babies' a little tighter today.