Get ready, this one could be a little bit of a “gushing” post.
We all like to believe our kids are extraordinary, it’s the role of being a parent. But, if you are the parent of a child who has the luck of being born with a few wonky bits, then you know that it’s a stone, cold fact of truth.
My kid is extraordinary.
Yesterday she underwent a complete hip replacement, after being in daily pain for almost 5 years. She hasn’t fussed, she hasn’t particularly moaned about why she was chosen to have a hip more suitable for a 95 year old woman, she has really only gotten down in the dumps, when in the last few months preceding the surgery she had to give up netball as the hip hangover was too much the following day.
In comparison, I dropped a barbell on my arm last week leaving a rather spectacular bruise that was shown to anyone who came near me, with the full story of how I had stupidly done so, and how much it hurt….
I am not extraordinary, in fact, I am simply a bit of a wuss.
But as I type this, my daughter, in front of me, hooked up to a million machines, a £5.20 Frappe clutched in her hand, and a new titanium hip in place, I feel simply overwhelmed by how incredible she is.
The surgery went well. I have watched my children go under general anaesthetic over twenty times in the last 14 years so I would argue I am immune to the process of their eye’s rolling, conversation stopping, as artificial sleep consumes them. However, this was the first anaesthetic in my new post menopausal state of mind, and it was tough. My eyes filled and my heart was gripped with a hormonal anxiety that maybe this time it wouldn’t be ok, and I left the room overpowered by feelings.
The only way I know how to manage those feelings is to distract my mind, so I ran.
I ran loops around the local park, every time a thought came into my head that increased the panic, I ran a little harder.
Six miles later, with a new personal best time under my belt, the menopause anxiety was sated, my head clear, and then I waited.
Three hours later, I had a very stoned child back in my world, and once again, I was amazed, impressed, and overwhelmed by how incredible she is.
(And by the power of Morphine…..)
She left the recovery ward bed bound, throwing out cheery drug induced hello’s to anyone she saw, acting more like someone who had had a good night out on the gin rather than some pretty hardcore surgery.
Twenty hours later….
We are still in hospital, we have booked in for a few nights. It has free tea and coffee, and all meals for the warrior, we have our own room, a machine that likes to alarm periodically and an ensuite.
Our current favourite game to play is who slept the worse.
She is playing the surgery card, however, I am sleeping on something that must have been a park bench in a former life.
(See above – she is extraordinary – I like to moan.)
We have been inundated with love and messages, and I am sorry if we have not managed to reply to all of them – despite time slowing down in these four walls, we seem to run out of it frequently.
At 15, my little girl has had more than her fair share of operations, and this bad boy operation should be the one to end them all for at least another 15 years, her entire life span so far.
At 15, my kid is one of the bravest, strongest humans I know – despite being a little “teenage” at times…
Today her aim is to get out of bed – I reckon she will annihilate this goal.
Mine is to attempt to spend less money keeping the local Co-op afloat as I periodically pop down for many things we don’t need, but want!
Wish us both luck.