Things have been a bit quiet here on the Scruffy Dad blog due to a combination of a whole heap of proofreading deadlines (the slow drip of filthy luchre into the family coffers) and a couple of trips to hospital for the Bould J-Bone.
Flushed with the success of climbing to the top of the playground climbing frame last Tuesday, J was hurtling around in shoeless pursuit of one of his friends when a tiny sliver of glass made its way into his foot. Very ouch.
After tweezers couldn’t root it out, we took a trip to A&E. J enjoyed his x-ray and was fascinated by his black-and-white bones, not yet joined up – if they ever join up. But when I was told they’d be discussing whether to give him an operation, general anaesthetic and the lot, my stomach flipped. I was expecting some super-tweezers and some kind of machine that would flush the glass out. I got a bit stressed and my text messages to Dr L, who was in a meeting, got a little frantic.
In the end, after a couple of fun hours playing with toys in the paediatrics waiting room, we were sent home with instructions to come back at 7.30 the next morning with an un-fed, un-watered J-Bone. Operation:Operation was on.
J complained a lot less about being woken up and skipping breakfast than I expected. And he enjoyed playing with another waiting room’s toy collection. He ran excitedly through the corridors, with a slight limp, on the way to the operating theatre, looking forward to his promised balloon. He was unfazed by the whole experience – up to that point.
He was not, however, impressed with the anaesthetists and their attempts to get him to distract him so they could give him an injection in his hand. Even less impressed by the mask and gas: Dr L was with him and he wriggled and kicked and said ‘Please! I don’t like it!’, still whimpering and shivering with sad little breaths as he went under. Horrible stuff, which lots of parents have had to experience. I don’t even like watching J fall asleep at night; it reminds me of watching my Dad dying in bed at home. Morbid, but true.
As he was brought round, he was raging: punching, kicking, screaming, pinching. It was at least 20 minutes before he’d calmed down enough to get out his first word. Another 30 minutes or so on the ward and judicious application of CBeebies and he had calmed down, but was still grumpy as all Hell. And who would blame him?
Dr L and myself were both fairly proud of his kicking against the dying of the consciousness, not getting suckered in by the balloon and bearing a grudge for an afternoon. I suppose we both hope, in our usual over-thinking way, that he might be well-equipped for a future existence of resistance and rebellion against the patriarchy or decades of Tory rule or Skynet or The Matrix or Britain’s Got Talent, whichever pricks he has to kick against.
The glass was out, the stitches are dissolving and the bandages are off – just over a week later. There’s still some pimp limp, but plenty of cricket and football in the kitchen, so he’s doing OK. We’ve even been back to the park.
But the shoes are staying on.