“Barry Broken Bones”*

It’s currently 5.10am and I’ve been sitting awake on the surgical ward of our local hospital since M woke in extreme pain at around 3.15am. He has finally dropped back to sleep, but it looks like I’m going to be surviving the next 24 hours on just 3 hours of unsettled sleep. The last 24 hours have passed in a blur and certainly our day didn’t end as it started out. big-play-barnWe’re halfway through the Easter school holidays and, with my Mum on her travels once again and me committed to work, Mike has taken some time off from his job to be on childcare duties for the duration.

The plan for the day was a popular one with M and G alike – drop me off to my office, back home for a quick breakfast, packed lunch prep and bag pack, and then head off to a nearby play place and farm – one of M’s all-time favourite places to visit when time allows. Day out done, it would be home for a spot of homework and maybe some TV before the return journey at the end of my work day to bring me home just in time for dinner. Timed to perfection, it promised to be a fun, busy and productive day for all concerned. The first I was aware that something untoward had cropped up was the phone-call to my office during lunch-time. A phone-call from G. The type of phone-call no parent wants to receive out of the blue:

Hi Mum, it’s me. Dad just wanted me to call and let you know we’re having to take M to hospital…”

Cue vivid flashbacks to a sunny day in Cornwall when M was 4 and the sounds of G pounding on the car window whilst Mike carried a screaming M in his arms and the ensuing drive in something of a blind panic to the nurse-led unit at Bodmin before an ambulance trip for 2 to Truro.

The partial facts I was able to extract from her at that point told me only a fraction of what I wanted to know, but it was enough to cause my heart to lodge itself in my throat and remain there for the rest of the day. With the news that M’s leg had been hurt and needed to be checked in A&E, the remnants of my lunch were pushed to one side and I worked hard to suppress the anxiety that I could feel creeping up in an attempt to catch me unaware all too frequently. I spent the rest of my afternoon in a state of mild shock, feeling nauseous about what might have happened and watching the minute hand tick slowly by as the tension started to build. It didn’t help that neither my office or our local hospital has great mobile phone signal meaning that it was near impossible for Mike and I to communicate in any effective fashion. I did manage to somehow stay focused enough to complete my day and finish some work during those long waiting hours, though the quality, accuracy and sense of that work will only be revealed once I’m back there. After what felt like hours, I finally gave in to my anxieties and called A&E, where, by complete chance, I managed to catch Mike just as he was about to leave with the children. Despite M’s severe pain, the nurse assessor felt confident that the lack of swelling and no discernible sign of a break on thorough examination indicated it was just badly bruised and some judicial doses of painkillers would soon see him back on his feet.

Now, the fact that I’m currently writing this by the light of my phone on a noisy hospital ward will probably tell you all you need to know and that the story didn’t end there. Not even close. By the time, I had been rescued from my office and we reached home, M was unable to put any weight on his foot and was screaming from the excruciating pain. He was rating his pain levels at approaching a 10 out of 10, which we knew meant this was far more serious than originally thought and his pale, strained face reflected that fact. IMG_0301[1]With very little debate and a hurried phone-call to A&E, we were soon back in the car and heading to the hospital, this time determined not to leave without an x-ray. The nurse assessor admitted on the phone to Mike that she had been reflecting on M and regretting discharging him without an x-ray, so for once we were happy to be visiting our local A&E again.

Within the hour, and obvious from the very first x-ray, we had our answer: M has a nasty spiral fracture to his left tibia. That has led to a full length leg cast from mid-thigh to toe, a considerable amount of tramadol, paracetamol and ibuprofen and an overnight stay for 2 on the surgical ward for observation. It’s been a difficult night as once again G has been sidelined whilst M heads into hospital, though this time the proximity to home has made it so much easier and she has been a superstar throughout. M’s pain has reached new levels of awful, though even then, as he lay sobbing in his hospital bed, he wouldn’t rate it as more than a 9, or possibly a 10, proving once again how accustomed to chronic pain he has become.

IMG_0302[1]The next few weeks are going to be tough and not just because of his broken leg. M is going to have to find a fortitude he’s never had before as he misses out on a much longed-for dream because of it. He is extremely disappointed, but courageously trying to take it in his stride, with the smile on his face we all know and love. I can see the hurt deep in his eyes, but we will hope that something even better comes from this disaster. What saddens me even more is that he really has been the victim in this situation. His broken leg is not due to careless or reckless behaviour on his part, but down to the action of another child. A child who probably has no idea of the physical damage to M’s body, let alone the other far-reaching consequences of his violence towards my child. I’m still reeling from the shock that a child of a similar age could cause such injury; disturbed that a family could leave without checking on his well-being and left hoping that my children don’t lose their beautiful skill of making friends of strangers wherever they are, even though the consequences can unbelievably be so devastating. I fear that this incident will leave an emotional scar on them both that will take a long time to heal.

*M’s leg might be broken, his dream in tatters and his confidence knocked, but at least 1 thing is still in tact – his sense of humour. In the wee small hours, whilst floating on a cloud of entonox, M decided that this needed to be his new name! That and he’s keen to investigate the price of a cow…

Advertisements

11 thoughts on ““Barry Broken Bones”*

  1. rickphilips

    No parent that has ever gotten a call like this completely understands. Every man understands what your son endured. Blessings that the system (boy growing up and mom’s anxiety overcome) worked, even if it was not the way the day started.

    I referred your article to the TUDiabetes blog page for the week of April 18, 2016.

    Reply
  2. Abee

    My daughter, also EGID with a twist of EDS and a dash of Von Willebrands, in a similar haze liked the nickname “Bone Breaker” …after she knocked the end of her bone walking into a pothole…til she realised the party she had planned for months was now on hold. Remember your / our mantra “One day at a time “. We wish you all and especially M a speedy recovery.

    Reply
    1. bluesingingdragon Post author

      Thank you so much. These EGID kids go through so much and amaze me every day. Your daughter sounds as much of a trooper as M, hope she is doing well at the moment. Look out for further updates on “Barry”!

      Reply
  3. mumoftype1

    Jeez! You poor thing! What a day! I’ve lived through my husband doing something similar to his leg. I told him if he ever does it again, he has to go and stay at his mum’s. Please look after yourself in the mild of all the craziness!

    Reply
      1. mumoftype1

        I just had to let you know cos I know you’ll get it – my big boofy 15 yr old who has type 1 diabetes broke his wrist yesterday! Just out of surgery to realign the bones, all good, had to fight a few minor battles over the diabetes management but he’s come through fine! Grrrrrrr!

  4. Pingback: All the Fun of the Fair | 7 years to diagnosis

  5. Pingback: M’s happy ending | 7 years to diagnosis

  6. Pingback: When September arrives | 7 years to diagnosis

  7. Pingback: From all angles | 7 years to diagnosis

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s