Dr Who In All's Well That Ends Well

It is day three of the new year and I am clinging to an Austrian mountainside, screaming into icy winds as a helicopter lands to airlift my daughter to hospital.

It was the final day of our holiday. We had been visiting friends in Austria and had decided to do a last ski-run together as a family (while Eddie waited at the bottom with his grandfather). We picked the easiest run on the mountain.  Taking the chairlift was an adventure for Gilby and he did bring it to a standstill trying to get on, but it was a glorious morning.

Gilby was slow, doing lots of snow-ploughing and crashing into his mother; and Gertie, scornful and seven-years' confident, went on ahead with her uncle.

A few minutes later we came across a crumpled heap on the mountain side. I thought she was winded until it transpired that she couldn't lift her head or straighten her back and complained that her feet were numb.  It was a fairly innocuous fall by all accounts but it looked as though it might have tragic consequences. The piste ambulance arrived, took one look, and refused to move her, radioing immediately for a helicopter.

They sedated her on the mountain. The last thing she said was 'Mummy, please don't let them take me to hospital'.

I have no doubt that the the view across the mountains by helicopter was dramatic and beautiful but I really didn't see any of it as I was so focused on Gertie who was unconscious.  There are no pictures because for once in my life I didn't think to take any. There were horrible scenes in the emergency room as she began to come to.  She kept asking if it was all 'real', and the memory loss meant that I had to explain over and over again what had happened to her.  She screamed each time she realised anew that she was in hospital.

The wonderful Dr Florian was patient and kind and had excellent English.  Gertie could never remember his name all the time we were there.  But his superb language skills lacked a tiny little something in bedside manner.

He would wave a giant needle around and say things like 'Vill you please tell your daughter that I must just now stab her qvickly for the bloods?' or flex his fingers before announcing, 'She vill feel extreme pain just now as I tvist her bone...'

I watched her for ten hours in intensive care before we knew that everything was really going to be ok. The point at which she leapt from the wheelchair and did a little jig was a bit of a giveaway, as was asking whether she was allowed to wear eye-shadow.

We were delayed leaving Austria by about 30 hours in the end and I had to miss a day of school. It's an extreme way to get additional time off work (as indeed my headteacher pointed out.)

I try not to court drama. I am thankful that my life generally goes along on an even keel. There are highs and lows and 2014 was a good year: healthy, happy children and a warm hearth.  There were some biggies, like my graduation ceremony - ten years in the making - no small cause for celebration;

Gertie's Irish Dancing Championship, a life-changing trip to teach in Uganda;

 my fulfilling of a twenty-year ambition to go to the Hay Festival, as well as finally getting Hearth-Father to the Isle of Wight Festival in June; and, of course, Arsenal won the FA Cup.

These highs were clouded by the sad and sudden loss of 'Pomp' in October.

But 2015 has begun with a bang. Gertie is absolutely fine, and will be back dancing in a couple of weeks' time. My mental scars will take a little longer to heal! Here's to a less dramatic start to the rest of the year.



Currently reading: Talking It Over by Julian Barnes

The Look That Says It All

Sheepish.

Yes.  So ignore last post entirely.

Hospital telephoned on Friday to say that they had looked again at the x-ray and Eddie did in fact have a cracked elbow.

So, once again I find myself up for the worst mother award.

Poor little mite.  Just in time for the summer holiday.

Ouch

I remember being at a cricket match about three years ago and having a drink with another Mother who at the time had two young boys. She asked idly, just to make conversation, I think, how many times we'd had to go to casualty.

Gertie was four, immaculately behaved with a penchant for sedate pastimes like reading and beading.  Dipping her toe into waves at the seaside was about the limit of her daredevil activity.

I laughed and thought the other mother was joking.  But no, it transpired that this was a regular occurrence in her household.  There had been falling out of trees, from bikes, in the playground.  It was a world alien to me as I cradled my baby boy and watched as Gertie worked away at her tapestry.  (I embellish a little, for narrative effect, but you get the idea.)

Fast forward to last weekend and our very first 'A&E' experience.  Another sunny Saturday afternoon at the cricket, home team on the verge of what would be a tight victory. A cry from the long grass.  Gertie comes running over because Eddie has fallen.  Eddie's arm hangs limply by his side and he is emitting a strange wail that I have never heard before.  I scoop him up in my arms and run to Hearth-father pronouncing that we have a 'situation' on our hands.  There is an off-duty nurse at the pitch side.  She takes a look and doesn't like what she sees.

Hearth-father looks longingly at what is left in his pint glass and decides that it isn't worth the risk with the inevitable drive to the hospital ahead.

Hearth-granny is called to babysit the big kids.  Hearth-mother is crying, convinced that x-rays will reveal the worst.  (She's not entirely sure why she has slipped in to third person at this stage, except that it also contributes to narrative effect.) Eddie doesn't stop screaming for the entire journey, despite being cradled by his mother all the way.  She feels every bump and jolt and corner even more than she did in labour on the same route two and a half years ago.

It is Saturday night and the accident and emergency department is standing-room only.  A queue of unfortunates line up waiting to be seen.  Eddie has cried himself to sleep and now looks unconscious, which gains some sympathetic glances from the other casualties.

The triage nurse provides painkillers and unhelpfully wakes Eddie in the process of weighing him.  Agrees that the signs are not good.  Eddie perks up a bit when he sees the toys in the paediatric waiting room, and we are at least now away from the drunken melee in the main waiting area.  Eddie tries to play, but cannot move his arm and feebly plays left-handed.  Another boy, about the same age is being tickled by his daddy.  Eddie wants us to do the same, but is too protective of his arm to find a giggle.

Two hours pass.  All the toys have been played with.  Conversations have been struck up with the other parents.  Everyone now knows everyone else's business.  Eddie has inadvertently revealed that Gertie was giving him a piggy back when he fell, much to the consternation of his parents and the amusement of everyone around. Oh.  That puts a slightly different complexion on things, exacerbating the extent of the injury.  He has fallen from a greater height than we originally thought.

Two more hours pass. There are still fourteen people ahead of us to be treated.  Eddie is becoming increasingly fractious (that's one of my favourite euphemisms). We decide to leave and get some sleep.  It it past midnight by the time we reach home.

Eddie wakes screaming at 2am and we give him more medicine.  In the morning his arm is still useless.  He tries to eat cereal and screams as he raises the spoon.  We phone NHS direct and they advise us to go straight back to casualty.  We cancel our plans for a visit to friends, and bring plenty of snacks and activities to the hospital.  The big kids are excited by the adventure, though Gertie is a little sheepish about her role in events, and her reluctance to impart crucial information the previous evening.

Three hours and three x-rays later, we discover there is nothing wrong.  Nil. Nada.  Eddie high-fives me. With his bad hand.  Which has miraculously come back to life with the news. I manage to refrain from throttling him in full view of a number of health officials.  It really is a very good job that he's cute.

We try to salvage something of the day by going out for lunch, but Eddie is grumpy and we abandon the mission. Hearth-mother is unsympathetic. (See, detaching myself again).

Eddie wakes up on Monday morning and with a twinkle in his eye asks if we can go back to the hospital and play with the toys.  My response is unpublishable.

I come home from work to find that his nanny is 'really worried about him' and has him lying on the sofa with his arm in a sling.  She is mopping his brow.  Seems perturbed when I am undisturbed.  Eddie realises that the game is up and hops up smartly to begin playing with his siblings...

Ouch.  Not sure who has been hurt more by the whole episode.  I am just aware that I lost seven hours this weekend that I won't get back.  Eddie: not his real name.  Might change it to 'Flimflammer'.


Currently reading: You Talkin to Me? By Sam Leith

Potty Book

I saw this and it made me smile.  And then I saw Martin D's 'post' and immediately thought of Eddie.

Because, and here's the thing:  I decided at half term that, since I would be home with the kids, it would be the time to potty train Eddie.  He seemed keen, the weather forecast was good (outdoor activities planned as part of carpet protection scheme) and it would be the summer before I had that kind of time to spare again.

It was an unmitigated disaster.  Day one went something like 8-0 (Carpet v Potty).  Day two was like war.  There was screaming, and tantrums, and Eddie wasn't particularly well-behaved, either.  By day three the plan was abandoned, and we remortgaged the house to pay for the additional nappies needed for the next few months.

And then, the following Friday, he announced at nursery entirely unprompted that he would be, "wearing big boy pants today, thank you".  They duly phoned us for permission to oblige; we laughed down the receiver and thought of the washing he'd be bringing home.

Nope.  Not a bit of it.  No accidents.  Not one. Perfectly potty-trained.  The nursery congratulated us on what a good job we'd been doing.

And that just about sums up Eddie: Nobody is going to tell him what to do or when to do it.

Ever, I suspect.

Anyone want to buy a truckload of nappies?



Currently Reading: The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

Scissorgate

Perhaps jealous at her brother's recent 'Niall from One Direction' haircut, Gertie decided yesterday morning to give herself a new style.  This basically involved hacking a very short fringe in the manner of a seventies popstar - perhaps Dave Hill of Slade fame. It is definitely not a good look - though mildly amusing, and we are, at least, several months away from the next set of school photographs.

What was more disturbing was the other use to which the scissors were put; namely, cutting into the upholstery on a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old chair, which I recently moved into the bathroom.  Lucky it wasn't a brand new one, or a might have been really cross.

Currently reading: A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates

We Have Lift Off!

One of the nice things we did over half term was to visit family in Dorset. Lunch outside on the Cobb at Lyme Regis was a real treat - who'd have thought in this wettest of wet winters that we might do that in February...


But the weather turned again and for the following day in Weymouth, Hearth-Father chose to worship at the 'cathedral of cider'. This was an airy rustic restaurant with only pizza and cider on the menu. Everyone was happy! But it was up on the third floor and had a lift to access. Once the children were finished eating they dashed off to play.


Shortly afterwards Gilby came running back into the room, shaking, purple-lipped and barely able to speak.


"Eddie's gone!" he sobbed. It took another moment to work our what had happened. "In the LIFT!" he wailed. It was absolutely the end of the world, and must have seemed as if his little baby brother had been swallowed up. After all, lifts can go anywhere, if you read Roald Dahl.


I ran to look and could just about make out a tiny voice shouting 'Mummy...'.


Thankfully the lift hadn't even moved from that floor, and the doors just opened up to reveal the miscreant, who needed a little cuddle but was otherwise unharmed.


It was touching that it was his big brother who was more upset.  Less so that a few hours later they were happily pummeling each other once more over whose turn it was to play with a toy.





Currently Reading: Boring research methodology books.

Christmas Mysteries

Christmas is full of mystery and magic...the star, the virgin birth, the angel appearing to the shepherds, the three wise men, how Santa manages to get around the whole world in just one night (though thankfully, today, there are websites that track his progress...) but in our house, one major mystery remained unsolved this Christmas.  What exactly happened to the Christmas tree lights? 

In mid December Daddy was sent to the loft to retrieve all Christmas decorations (a job he secretly loves, though pretends to hate.  I have to believe this.)  The tree went up; favourite decorations appeared.  Joy came to the household. 

Except that...there were no fairy lights.  I know I packed them up carefully last year. What on earth could have happened to them?  Daddy was sent to the loft again to double-check that there wasn't a single box remaining...(see, I told you he really liked it up there).  Alas, no lights. 

We decided that the Christmas tree really did need them, and also, when we invested in new ones, that things really had moved on in the fairy-light-world since our last purchase. 

I was also delighted to discover that I had evidently done diligent January-sale Christmas card buying, and that I had even bought one or two Christmasy books and a few odd little bits and pieces that would make lovely presents for our neighbours' children - go me. 

There was a lovely little pack of toy cars - they'd be brilliant for Eddie.  I wrapped them up.  The big day came.  I have found that it arrives whether you are ready or not.  Usually I am not.  But this year, I was in control (ish).  Christmas morning brought shrieks of delight, just as it should, and we let baby Eddie sleep in whilst the 'big' kids opened their pressies.  They then took great pleasure in opening the gifts in his stocking on his behalf. 

So...try explaining why Santa had given Eddie the gift of a set of Christmas tree lights masquerading as a trio of cars.  Yep.  Mystery solved.

Happy new year!

P.S. Best Christmas telly?  Louis Smith's showdance on Strictly Come Dancing!

Things That Go Bump in The Head

Thus far we have avoided casualty.

I make this statement because I remember a friend of mine who had a little boy saying to me, when our children were about two-and-a-half, "So, how many times have you had to go to the hospital so far?" She was a regular visitor it seems, and we put our fortunate position down to the fact that we had a careful little girl. A few years later and we have our own two-and-a-half year old boy. He is certainly more accident-prone, and I regularly get the phone-call from nursery to explain in what creative and freakish manner he has managed to bump his head this time. He is also displaying some quite 'challenging' behaviour at the moment. (That is a not particularly well-disguised euphemism for 'driving me mad'.)

So I didn't really worry initially when some loud yells came from our bedroom and Gertie and Gilbert both came out crying and clutching their heads. "We bashed heads," they moaned in unison. I was busy in the bathroom with Eddie, so consoled them briefly, alongside a stern reminder about how they shouldn't be jumping on mummy and daddy's bed anyway.

But two minutes later when I went to check on why it was now so quiet, I discovered that Gilby was unconscious. I panicked. I managed to bring him round, but his eyes were rolling back in his head and he just kept saying that he wanted to 'rest'. (Unheard of from Gilby.) So I phoned Daddy and asked him to come home from work, phoned the duty doctor, phoned my mum to come and babysit whilst we whisked him down to casualty. The doctor persuaded me that there was no need, as long as he wasn't being sick and we kept an eye on him he would probably be alright. Difficult to keep an eye on him overnight, but we kept checking and all was well.

Except that when we woke up in the morning I seemed to have a different child: Polite, helpful, sweet, considerate and not throwing a tantrum. This more severe bang on the head seems to have had a strange side-effect and actually knocked some sense into him. Can it be coincidence? I wonder if I need to keep a mallet in my handbag for any future recurrences of ill-behaviour. Not entirely sure that the health visitor would approve though.