There are few things I dread more than having to venture into the city to go to a medical appointment. Perhaps because I’ve now spent the bulk of my adult life sitting in a waiting room because of my desire to have children who are either born broken or born with a tendency to try and slice off their digits at every given opportunity.

I’ve done my time with the medical establishment. Which is why it seems a cruel hard fate to know that today I have to make the long drive into the city, pay for parking, wear one of those ugly hospital gowns that never seem to snap shut properly and therefore flash everyone in the room with a delightful view of my arse crack and then lay down on what is basically a metal coffin and listen to the obnoxious clanging of the MRI machine as it takes pictures of my back fat.

It’s going to be awesome. And I’m so not shaving my legs for it.

To say I’m not really excited about my afternoon appointment is a bit of an understatement. Especially since I’ve been down this road before more times than I can now count and it leads to surgery, more pain and me walking around stooped over a bedazzled cane as my dad offers to give me an enema.

(For some reason the man is obsessed with fecal regularity. Especially mine. As a postoperative gift, instead of the typical flowers most daughters get, he brings me a box of stool softeners. I wish I were kidding.)

Let the good times roll!

However, as pessimistic and irrationally cranky about my own experiences with the medical establishment and my mucked up back, I have nothing to say about the treatment my children (dead and alive) have received in their short little lives.

We are blessed with a fabulous children’s hospital and surrounded by expert medical peoples who go above and beyond the call of duty to ensuring all my children keep their digits while ensuring my youngest lives to see another day.

Jumby’s life hasn’t been the easiest, starting from the day he was born prematurely and weighing one pound four ounces. My kid was as big as a block of butter. He survived his size and the plethora of health issues that happen when you are born a micro preemie.

He survived the abuse he received thanks to the medical establishment and he fights daily to overcome his existing disabilities. (For those of you who are unaware, he’s legally blind, deaf, developmentally disabled, and quadriplegic who eats through a tube and will remain diapered for the rest of his days.)

But Jumby is awesome. Regardless of all his impairments, this kid just keeps on thriving. He has a sense of humour that is inspiring and spreads more joy than a diseased tick can spread Lyme disease.

But life isn’t always easy with him (understatement of the week alert!) and there are times I’m rendered exhausted by the sheer enormity of what it means to tackle this many disabilities at once.

This most happens when Jumbster is having a bad day with pain and spasms and there is nothing we can do to help him medically other than love him through it.

It can sometimes suck.

I’d move mountains to make his life (any of my kids’ lives) better. Pain free. Healthy.

Even if that mountain was medical marijuana.

And that is what I’m yammering on about in my latest Momversation video. Which I hope you will take the time to watch.