We go to hospital for four days and we have a new Prime Minister? AND it’s a WOMAN? AND A RED HEAD? And what’s that you say? Our ‘old’ PM gets very emotional and shows more humility and emotion than in the entirety of the last 2 1/2 years? Holy crap people, I turn my attention elsewhere for five minutes…
So while our politicians were having a collective brain fart Oscar and I were partying on down at Sydney Children’s Hospital once more. You know, this time with feeling. Or for those in the cheap seats.
For starters we were in the Care by Parent ward which is basically like a budget motel. Our own room, two single beds, our own shower and toilet and Oscar’s meals taken care of. There is a nurse on duty but that’s just in case someone decided to have an unexpected spew (Oscar, I am so looking at you) so it’s all a bit surreal because you’re in the hospital going to myriad appointments but you’re sort of doing your own thing at the same time. Weird.
On top of that, the ward is also the sleep study unit, so each afternoon all these little moppets arrive and the next thing you know they’re all decked out in their jimmy jams walking around with all these nodes attached to their heads and little backpacks on carrying the monitors and wires. The fact i thought it was all rather cute is a clear indication I have exceeded my time spent at hospital allocation.
Stage one: Removing the casts
I think this picture encompasses what Oscar thought of this process.
Yes, I took photos. Because I am a cold heartless parent more interested in boosting my blog ranking than comforting my child. Deal with.
The primary issue here is the ‘tickle machine‘ which is the saw that cuts through the plaster. I mean, come on. Calling a buzz saw with an engine making the equivalent noise of a leer jet a ‘tickle machine’ does little to comfort a child like Oscar.
It was actually quite impressive that his screaming was louder than the saw. Such a talent that boy of mine. To wail at a pitch high enough and at a volume loud enough you’re quite certain your ears and eyes are going to start bleeding any moment. Think of that noise an impala makes as a lion gores it on the savannah. Times that by eleventy gagillion and you’d be at least in the vicinity of Oscar’s protests.
It was, eventually, all over. And look what we found. Legs!
I’m not sure what I expected but they looked a lot like his legs before the surgery and far less manky. Do be grateful however that my blog is not smellablog for dudes, the odour coming off those babies was enough to make the baby Jesus cry and the grown Jesus contemplate not rising on the third day.
After some more screaming at removing those sticky plasters (something he – nor I – was primed for) we had feet complete with really manky scabs and skin falling off.
Do you spy something in that shot up there? (and my apologies for the squeamish among you but hell, if I had to hold on to my breakfast for this caper I figure I might as well share the whole experience) Something that looks surprisingly like some foam held on to my son’s foot with what suspiciously looks like, like, a button? That strangely craft orientated piece of work is how they secure the tendons after this type of surgery. Over the six weeks the tendons heal/reattach/do whatever the fuck they’re meant to do and then they just snip that button off and voila, it’s all done. Modern medicine. The mind boggles.
So this folks, was Day 1.
Don’t you think a parents bar would be a perfect addition to a hospital?