So, you know how women who live together start to menstruate at the same time? Well you may have noticed that two weeks ago, all these women who blog together have had their children in hospital at the same time. Blackbird, Babelbabe, Surfing Free, Bec, My Float. All on the same day(s).
Being a couple of weeks behind in world fashions is nothing new for me. You know, I like to dip my toe in gingerly before I join the trendsetters. Ha.
So. This morning Son #2’s wrist was still out of action. Hmmm, not just a bruise perhaps? Maybe a nasty sprain? He and I dropped the other two at school and headed for the doctor who eyed me dubiously when he heard it had happened, uh, three days ago. Yes yes, guilt guilt, I know. He sent us off for x-rays, saying it was probably just a greenstick fracture and he would put it in a cast for a couple of weeks. My guilt levels were rising rapidly by this stage. My baby has a FRACTURE and I gave him a bandage and Panadol and didn’t go near a doctor for three days! In my defence, he was still riding his bike and wrestling with his brothers rather than lying pale and wan on the couch clutching his misshapen arm.
We returned to the doctor clutching three x-rays. He took one look and whistled. That’s no greenstick, that’s a big break. And it’s angulated. I can’t plaster it here, you’ll have to go to the hospital and have it straightened and set.
Oh god. I am such a bad bad mother.
And so passed a full day at the Royal Children’s Hospital, a place with which Son #2 is already intimately acquainted due to surgery at the age of four. Ugh. The doctors informed me that in order to set the bone they would have to anaesthetise him. Maternal guilt levels reached a crescendo.
Happily they spiked the laughing gas with chocolate syrup which made him giggle and gave him the world’s largest chocolate moustache, and he developed a strong attachment to the morphine which was administered through an IV drip (My baby had a drip! In hospital! For the broken wrist that I ignored! For three days! Oh god!) He charmed all the doctors, laughed hysterically (with the assistance of the gas) when they gave him a stethoscope to play with, requested top ups of the morphine (That stuff is really good!)and was generally very brave and gorgeous while they manipulated his poor arm and put him in a very impressive plaster cast up to his shoulder. His shoulder! We thought he had a bruised wrist! Oh I'm going on and on I know!*
We arrived home hours and hours later, exhausted, dehydrated, starving and emotionally traumatised but as always, thankful that it was only a broken bone rather than some of the things we were witness to in that place.
He vomited quietly all over the bathroom floor and spent the rest of the evening on the couch finishing the fourth Harry Potter book.
I just put him to bed a few minutes ago. He turned his pale beautiful face up to mine as we eased his huge heavy white arm into his pyjama sleeve and said Mummy, for my next birthday, can I please have some more of that morphine?
* Apologies for the prolific use of exclamation marks in this post. I am feeling a little overwrought.
However I've just read all your comments on the previous post and am feeling slightly better for hearing that many of you ignored broken bones too. Phew.