He barely slept last night, his excitement was all consuming, morning seemed to take forever to arrive but when it did he bounded out of bed with all the energy of a Duracell bunny and was dressed, teeth brushed and hair combed by 7.22am.
Today was my son’s day.
After almost two years of being dragged to hospital appointments that were not his own, spending half terms in children wards visiting one of his sisters and knowing far more than a child should about Type 1 diabetes and Hip Dysplasia, Twin Boy had finally been referred and his hospital appointment was finally here.
He strode to school with the confidence of a man, stopping to tell anyone who crossed his path that he wasn’t going in this morning, he had a meeting with a chap in a white coat and a pretty nursing lady. He gleefully waved his twin sister farewell at the door and then leapt back into the car with a grin spreading across his face.
“Drive mummy, drive,” he said, hoping to see me put my foot down and drive like Nigel Mansell. I refused to exceed the speed limit and he grumbled pointing out that if my reckless driving had caused an accident at least we were going to the right place for a whiplash injury.
As we drove the ten miles to the hospital ward, he fidgeted, giggled, played with his small sister and only asked 396 times if we were nearly there yet.
Then we arrived, to the familiar NHS greying building, knowing my way around too well I stopped by the vending machine for a cup of tea and ushered my two children into the waiting room to play with blocks and coloured in colouring books.
The minutes on the clock ticked by until;
“Owen, is Owen here?” a friendly looking nurse popped her head around the door.
My son continued playing oblivious to the woman. BB bent down to her older brother and cupped her hand around his ear and bellowed “Owen” so loudly that the old lady next to me dropped her walking stick on the floor in shock.
He looked up at me confused and possibly dazed from the ringing of BB’s lungs in his ear.
The nurse repeated herself in a slightly louder tone,
“Are you Owen?” she said smiling at my boy.
“Pardon” yelled back my son.
“C’mon,” I said “pop those toys away and it is your turn.”
“The boy’s turn?” queried my son, “what boy, I am the only boy, is it my turn?”
The nurse and I snorted in unison, both of us trying to conceal the giggles that were threaterning to spill from our throats but still unable to do so with any degree of success.
Twin Boy, still slightly bewildered, popped the toys away and followed us in to the room.
It may come of no surprise to anyone to discover he failed the hearing test. It seems that after living in this highly engetic and moderately loud household for seven years his ears have done him a favour and his some of his hearing has buggered off.
We have lots of home remedys to try and bring it back. Twin Boy is delighted to have finally got a condition with a name : heavily congested glue ear.
And the best news?
He gets to go back in two months for more tests.
I never asked for less than healthy children, but it is lovely to see him so happy to not be 100%!