Maintenence

"So he'll get this once a day. You can either give it to him as part as your morning routine or at night," the pediatrician told me.
"Okay."
"For the next four or five days, just combine it with one of his other treatments. Once you finish that, you'll just do this one by itself."
"Okay," I nodded.
"Now, this is a steroid. But it's a very low does steroid."
"Okay." The doctor started to write a prescription.
"Wait," I interrupted. "I don't mean to be completely stupid, but I have a few questions. So is this like asthma? Does he have asthma?"
"Well, yeah, it's a lot like asthma. We're doing this in hopes that it won't develop into asthma. And most kids who get asthma grow out of it. Of course, I can't guarantee anything."
"Okay. So is his brain being damaged? If he's having to work so hard to breathe, is his brain getting enough oxygen?"
The pediatrician looked at me with more patience than I'd seen from him since my first visit there. "His brain is getting plenty of oxygen. Just because his breathing is laboured doesn't mean he's not getting enough air. Human lungs can function at about 1% of their full capacity. It just means that the lungs have to work a lot harder than normal, which makes other things harder. Look at him. We can hear that he's active, he's moving, but it's harder than it should be. We can tell by his breathing."
"And the steroids? Is his little face going to become all puffy?"
"No. He's not going to turn into Arnold Schwarzenegger or have baby roid rage or anything like that. He's not going to look like a weightlifter or body builder or anything." The doctor's patience was waning.
"So just to clarify," I said. "We're doing this indefintely?"
"Indefinitely," repeated the doctor. Then he paused. "Well, at least for the next two or three years. Definitely until July. I've written you a 30 day prescription with one refill. This is the maintenence medicine I said we'd hold off on at the last visit. It's necessary now."
"Okay, so that should take us until the end of June. We're scheduled for a checkup then."
"Great. After July, I might take him off of it, IF he's doing better, I'll take him off of it for the summer then start him back up in the fall, when the weather starts to turn. By doing this for the next few years we hope that his lungs will be able to work at full capacity later on."
I pictured my baby at 12, not able to play soccer because his lungs don't work properly, and I thought of the daily wrestling matches our family would have to endure: turn nebulizer on. Hold the baby's arms down. Hold his head still. Pat his head. Explain that this is for his own good. Try to watch whatever's on the Food Network or Bravo during the 20 minute ordeal. Remind him (and myself) that with each treatment, we are one day closer to being finished. Turn the nebulizer off and try to catch a squirming baby. Explain that we are not, in fact, finished and that he does not have a choice on this. Try to carry on conversation with other adult in the room, over the roar of the nebulizer motor. Give up, turn nebulizer off, comfort sobbing baby.
Every day. Indefinitely.
I think we are being punished for mocking this commercial so often.