So far we’ve managed to avoid the late night vigil in Casualty with Boychild. We had it with Girlchild a decade ago- memo to young parents: Polished wood floors are brilliant for health and aesthetics, but very bad for falling on face first.
(Update: Girlchild’s face is very beautiful and by some miracle she has all her teeth.)
Also, by some miracle, Boychild still has two eyes. His penchant for explosions caught up with him today. This time it wasn’t Mentos and Coke but simple bicarb and vinegar. Hell, I use the same mixture for cleaning bathroom surfaces. I first became aware of a problem when peeling potatoes and hearing his friend, who had come for a sleepover, yelling that “Boychild’s really hurt himself. Help, help, he’s really hurt.”
Here follows a couple of paragraphs which might not be immediately legible because it concerns tear/tear (rip vs. drop of salty water), like those “They’re Their There” paragraphs which school students have to parse…
He had a three cornered tear on the skin on his head near the hairline. Now I know what they say in the First Aid courses: Head wounds bleed copiously. Believe it. So, I did not freak out based on the enormous amounts of blood coursing down his little face. We hotfooted it to the local hospital and thanks to Boychild gushing fountains of blood, were admitted straight away. Thank the Lard, it was an unusually quiet night. One nice doctor sewed up his head while an extremely cool younger doctor gave him a lecture on not blowing things up. Thanks, nice doctor and cool doctor.
Then he had to wait an hour and a half to see Way Cool Eye specialist, which was where I began to freak out. (Inwardly, of course. People who outwardly freak out in Casualty should just get the fuck out and are a pain in the arse.) Because of course the first thing I’d asked him was whether the flying shrapnel had got his eye. No, he hadn’t got any pain in his eye and it was fine he said. Bollocks. He has a small tear in his iris. Yes that kind of tear not the other kind. He also has blood in the front of the eye. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
He is going to have to spend seven days commuting between his bed, the couch and the toilet. He’s not allowed to do …well…anything much. He can’t even walk around the block. Worse, he can’t do too much reading or computer gaming or any of the other things 11-year-old boys want to do to pass the time when they’re immobilised. Is it possible for an 11- year old to perish from sheer boredom?
(Digression- about freaking out in Casualty – bearing in mind it was Saturday, we got discharged just as the first wave of Angry Drunks arrived. That was lucky. Isn’t there some island somewhere we could send angry drunks and meth heads to live? I wouldn’t want to persecute them or anything. I’d drop really nice food by helicopter. Just let them live there away from the rest of us.)
I’m just glad to have Boychild home, instead of in a hospital bed (which was on the cards a few hours ago). I’m glad he still has the chance of keeping his (hitherto) healthy vision. Please keep your fingers crossed for him.