Monday, July 06, 2015

Stookie






A moment.
Quick as a flash.
The usual bump over the door sill
and then silence.
No rattle of the chair.
No whizzing.
Just silence.
And then I realise -
Eilidh is lying on the patio
motionless and quiet.
I run to pick her up
and she cries.
I don't know what happened.
I do know this -
she wasn't wearing her lap belt.
A fat lip, a grazed chin and nose.
Tears fall fast.
She seems ok.
Paracetamol.
Brufen.
She settles.
She sleeps.
And when she wakes she's unsettled.
Just not quite right.
She won't let me touch her.
She won't let me move her or transfer her.
I know that all is not right.
More analgesia.
I'm home alone with the girls;
the hospital is a difficult choice.
I'll see how she is overnight.
She insists that it feels better.
She is awake all night.
We see every hour.
She refuses to let us turn her.
No more nonsense.
Daddy is back.
Granny can take Niamh.
The brand new emergency department beckons.
Tony at Triage.
Paracetamol.
Will, the doctor, reassuring and gentle.
X-ray, innocuous itself but the transfer painful;
a sticker as reward.
There it is,
in black and white -
A buckle fracture of
the distal femur,
fifteen degrees of angulation.
And my tears fall - I know what's to come.
Eilidh asks questions and I try to explain.
A long leg cylindrical cast.
Bright pink.
4 weeks minimum.
I can see she's worried.
I reassure her.
The staff reassure her.
And the cast goes on.
The pain is better,
The anxiety persists.
All she needs is time.
Home calls.
We step outside:
her wheelchair and her
Stookie.
SMA becomes invisible:
Her stookie, visible, trumping all;
Her wheelchair necessary, justified
And accepted.
For now at least
her injury is normal.





Wednesday, June 24, 2015

7 weeks



They have begun - the summer holidays. 
Seven whole weeks. 
49 days. 
I'm going to be brutally honest; I am dreading them. 
Many a mum has chatted excitedly about the lack of routine, the care free days, kids being kids.
The fun. The excitement.
"Enjoy the holidays!"
And inside I cry.

Seven whole weeks.
The days are not care free.
Physiotherapy - AFOs, standing frame, stretches and massage.
Transfers, lifts - bed, toilet, wheelchair, toilet, sofa, standing frame, wheelchair, and on and on...
Planning, double guessing, and planning some more.
Questions, demands, bickering.
Balancing the needs of my children, forgoing the needs of myself.
The impact, physically and emotionally, unpredictable.

I am dreading the holidays.
Anxiety is running high.
Panic that the burden will be too great, panic that I will break, lies close beneath the surface.
Seven weeks.
49 days. 
"Enjoy the holidays!"