Archive for December 2009
Frustration.
Hearing test: abnormal.
Bloods: abnormal.
CT scan: pending.
Yes, still.
Number of doctors closed until the end of January 2010: too many to list.
Care factor of boonie doctor: zero.
GP’s ability to organise a hospital admission: zilch.
Ability for paediatrician to stay true to his word: nil.
Chances of Ivy having an illness free Christmas: slim
Chances of preschool child vomiting, meaning gastro has come to play…again: Oh, high, very high.
Chances of the universe giving me a break?
You decide.
A Cujo moment.
“You say my nose, sir, reminds you of a dachshund? That is the first flattering remark anyone has made of it.”
-Cyrano de Bergerac
Chipolata; aka the small sausage dog, has a Cujo moment.
“Mu – um! If a sausage dog eats sausages, does that make him a cannibal?”
- Maddy Rose August 2009. Aged 13 (very blonde).
The theme at I Heart Faces for this week is pets.
The story.
They know the story as well as their own:
When he’s close, when he wants us to know his love, William’s white feathers appear.
A tale told to a grieving mother, wanting to hold on to any piece of her baby
and passed onto the brother and sister, in the hope that they may know him a little.
A story.
That’s all it probably is,
not a truth
not fact
but in the magic of the season,
in the pure innocence of childhood,
today,
when they came to me with dozens of the pure, white, downy beauties
that they had found scattered in the yard,
today
I just had to believe.
Hand holding.
I slip into the padded chair
and turn the crook of my arm skywards.
My name is checked and my date of birth as the torniquet is secured and then tightened.
He’s watching my every move and that of the phlebotomist too.
She looks him over and then asks me to have him stand away.
I ask him to move over to the doorway but instead he comes closer and hovers by the arm of the chair.
“Here, mummy, you can hold my hand.
You can give it a squeeze if it really stings and I will take the hurts from you”, he tells me.
The pathologist clucks at the absolute cuteness of my son as she pierces the vein and extracts the blood needed for testing.
I grasp his little hand
but not because of the pain.
Funny,
aside from the swell of love for the boy,
I no longer feel a thing.
