For over a week now my stomach has been gripped with anxiety and fear has been a constant companion. As someone who isn’t known particularly to fret it is a curious sensation to be on a knifes edge all day long, tottering near the prepice, unsure as to when and if the house of cards will come tumbling down.
Everything has been going too well, diabetes seems to be behaving herself and twin girl demonstrates remarkable maturity in her handling of the sugar lover who dwells within her being. BB is coming on leaps and bounds, the quiet, rarely speaking toddler of six months ago has all but disappeared and instead we have a vibrant running, shouting, character filled prima donna who rules the roost and does so delightfully. Twin Boy has a referral for a hearing test, he is elated just to have something that is all for him, we are not so concerned about the outcome, I am sure he is fine; anyone could go a little deaf living in this house.
So last week….
BB went to physiotherapy, she stumbled in the room, dragging her afflicted side slightly and greeted her therapist with a smile and a chocolate orange she had brought to say thanks. She lay silently on the bed, her eyes trusting the woman she has come to view as friend in eight short weeks and she allowed her to manipulate her joints from side to side and up and down. As usual her left leg refused to move to the side or travel anywhere near her tummy when bent.
“No change,” commented the Physio, “except….”
My heart leapt into my throat as I waited to hear good news, waited to hear her leg was displaying some flexibility, waited to hear it was getting better.
“she has a leg length difference, her left side is shorter again.”
Around me the room grew tight, as I hurtled back through time to a period over twelve months when she was diagnosed with Hip Dysplasia, for when we first noticed her legs finished in different places.
The therapist touched my shoulder, “it wasn’t there the last time she came was it?”
My sad eyes were answer enough, any parent with a child who has suffered through DDH knows to check leg lengths and bottom creases regularly.
“It could be nothing,” she continued “but the physiotherapy isn’t working Jane, she needs to go back to see the surgeon.”
There it was left, once again, filled to the brim with worry about my beautiful dancing limping child. Destined to fill time between appointments searching through Google, looking for answers I don’t quite understand.
March 27th – it is when we go back, when we will be referred for more tests and start looking for more answers.
When I dream I dream of spica casts, of a time I thought we had left behind; I worry myself senseless that my smallest baby girl will once again face the sting of the knife to get her walking straight.
I begin my mantra again, “it could be worse, it’s not Cancer”, it is my faithful old line, but it doesn’t wrap me in comfort, until I know what I am dealing with I can’t begin to reassure.
Let’s hope it is nothing, that she is just slow to get straight.