It’s wrong when you start to become immune to watching your baby fall into an unnatural sleep, yet today I watched with exhausted eyes as once more BB went under anaesthetic for her new cast to be put on.
The silent parental terror that something would go wrong and she would remain sleeping haunted me for an hour until the nurse tapped my shoulder to tell me all was well.
I went to collect my slightly fractured girl and was greeted by a miserable sight, red eyes, wild hair, and a streaming nose my child had realised that she had awoke once more with her legs bound to the bed.
Once settled in my arms I looked at her and examined the new spica cast and realised it was wrong.
BB resembled how I would look if I tried to pour myself into size ten jeans. If I had painted her with a brown felt pen people would think a giant muffin was cruising towards them.
It was a little tight.
We went on a trip to the plaster room and a lovely little lady welcome us.
“I put that on” she beamed “not done a spica in years…”
No shit sherlock.
So we trimmed and we cut and then we split the spica right down the middle; wrapped a bit of velcro round it to prevent it falling apart and hey presto we were done.
BB is now sporting the frankenstein of casts. It has bits hanging off, bit tied on, bits shoved in to try and stop it rubbing.
Spica is not about style but my child looks like twin boy had an accident with wet bandages and some gaffer tape.
I may have moaned a little.
We may have stomped our feet like toddlers.
But the nhs have a way of dealing with rebels like us.
They listened to our demands, heard our pleas that a spica split in two is not a spica cast at all and smiled and said.
“You can stay with us again tonight, on the house, and we can try and sort it in the morning.”
Smooth talkers, they know BB and I are suckers for a free holiday…
Day six tomorrow in our hospital hostel. We were in for five days when she had her operation.
We would like to go home now…