It’s amazing to realise that something that was horrific the first time can become normal by the third.
We are at the half way point; BB has lived for six weeks in spica. She has coped incredibly and has challenged every expectation we had of life in cast. She has crawled, flown down slides, swung in a see saw and ridden a carousel. Every time she smiles at me my already love struck heart manages to squeeze out another drop of joy.
Her prize for six weeks of spica?
Another general anaesthetic, an x ray, a bit of hip manipulation and a brand spanking new cast.
It’s her third anaesthetic in less than two years. The third time I have felt my daughter fall limp in my arms. It doesn’t slap me like an insult any more, I know what to expect. I know she will be fine. I know it is an unpleasant necessity.
But still in the minutes that pass whilst I sit beside an empty hospital cot the demons of my mind began their merry dance. “What if it goes wrong” one whispers, “what if they can’t wake her up” twirls another, “what if, what if, what if” they tap dance in unison.
I barely breathe whilst she is away, my stomach tosses and turns like an angry ocean, I fret, worry and wonder.
Then she returns, tired, beautiful encased in plaster from the waist down. The demons disappear silent, their mocking voices silenced by the appearance of my wonderful, healthy child.
The third time wears the mask of normality but still scares you shitless all the same.
Six more weeks to go, till this chapter ends and our story continues…
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