Another trip to Greenville in the books—our 29th visit to Shriners Children’s Hospital. That’s right. Twenty-nine.

This one? Pretty routine, all things considered. A new brace. A pair of fresh splints. A whole lot of waiting. And yet, even the most standard visits manage to wear you out in ways you don’t expect.

Let’s rewind, though, before we even stepped foot inside Shriners.

We’ve got a bit of a ritual now with these trips—same drive, same hotel, same hospital. You do something enough times, it starts to feel like muscle memory. And apparently, we’ve been so consistent that the hotel clerk now recognizes me on sight. I’ve mentioned her in past posts, how check-in has slowly transformed into something borderline VIP. First, she stopped asking for my ID. Then she stopped confirming my info. A visit or two ago, I walked in, and before I could even say a word, she handed me my room key. Didn’t ask my name. Didn’t confirm how many keys I needed. Just—“Hi Michael,” and boom, done. Like I was checking into the Matrix.

But this time? This time, we hit a new level.

As I walked up to the counter, she smiled and said, “I was just talking about you earlier today.” Apparently, when she saw my name on the reservation list, she told her coworkers, “Oh! Michael is checking in tonight!” Then proceeded to tell them about this nice man from Kentucky who comes down with his wife and son for Shriners appointments. I stood there, kind of stunned, unsure whether I should be flattered or mildly concerned. I mean, when your hotel clerk is telling stories about you like you’re a recurring character in their favorite show… you’ve definitely crossed into new territory.

Honestly, at this point, most would probably consider looking for a new hotel, but we’re so close to earning a free night’s stay that I’m just going to push forward. (I just need to make it a point when we’re back in July, I make note of her name.) 

Now—onto the actual visit.

Like I said, this trip was mostly about fitting and picking up a new TLSO brace. We started in POPs, where they brought out the new gear and tried it on Harrison. Then came the back-and-forth process: test fit, make adjustments, test again. Once it was close, we took x-rays. More tweaks. A check-in with Dr. Pete. The usual dance.

Physically, it’s not a complicated day. Emotionally? That’s a different story.

Harrison is four. He doesn’t like being confined. He definitely doesn’t like being held still. And when you factor in the layers of medical PTSD, you’ve got a perfect storm of resistance. Getting his height measured, slipping the brace on, holding him for x-rays, even holding his arm steady for splint fittings—each one a battle. Not because he’s intentionally being difficult, but because it’s hard. Because it’s scary. Because it’s exhausting—for him most of all.

And for us? There’s a different kind of toll.

There’s a part of me—99% of the time—that wishes my son could talk. I want to hear his voice. I want to know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. But that 1%? That rare, gut-wrenching 1%? That’s when I’m thankful he can’t. Because if I had to hear him say what he’s feeling in those moments, when we’re holding him down and he’s crying, terrified? I’m not sure I could take it. Because even without words, it’s already almost too much.

But we got through it.

And as it turns out, he’s good with the new brace. Once the tears dried and he realized it wasn’t as restrictive as the old one, and he could still walk around in it? Total shift. The clouds parted. It was a battle to get there, but we landed in a good spot.

Of course, then came the waiting.

We had nearly a 90-minute gap before our OT appointment to get new wrist splints. Thankfully, Shriners has decent food options and the spring weather was kind, so we took lunch outside. (This would be the part where I mention Jenna getting locked in a stairwell for 15 minutes, but she might kill me if I do. So I won’t. But just… know it happened.)

We’ve become pros at killing time during these lulls. I may or may not have nodded off in a chair for a few minutes—occupational hazard of dad life. But, thankfully, the nap bug eventually found its way to Harrison, too. That made the splint fitting way smoother than the brace ordeal.

So yeah. Not a particularly exciting trip. But still draining in all the usual ways.

We needed it, though. He’d long outgrown his old brace, and seeing him move around in the new one, a little more comfortable, a little more confident—that’s always worth it.

Next up? Trip #30. A two-day marathon in July, with appointments for both Dr. Pete and Dr. Hyer. Should be a bit more to talk about then.

Until next time, Greenville.