23 February 2007

Healing well.

Today, Abbe was with me at work. A wall in our office is entirely made of glass, from floor to ceiling. To protect people from falling through the glass (how would that happen?) there is a security bar, at about hip height. A bit like one of those ballet bars in front of a mirror, you know. The only difference being, you won’t see yourself when looking into the glass, but everybody in the street below will.

Anyway, Abbe of course wanted to stand there all the time, to check out the people in the street below. Nothing wrong with that. But then I see him hanging in the bar. Two little hands have taken a firm grip around the bar and my two-year-old is now dangling with his two feet 4 inches above the floor.

It’s not even a week ago he broke his right hand. I know. I saw the X-rays myself. Strange. And mighty.

18 February 2007


I mean, this is just insane. Abbe has broken his arm! How unfair does it get? The fact that small children break their arms is not that strange, but hasn’t my son spent enough time in a hospital?

It was this morning that Abbe fell out of our bed and hurt himself. I didn’t see how he fell but he must have fallen with his hand first. We tried to comfort him and then the day went on as per normal. However, after a while, we noticed how he hurt, for example everytime he fell and used his hands to break his fall. As the day went on, Abbe developed a way of protecting his hand, he avoided using it or allowing anything to touch it. He screamed loudly when I put on his gloves and later on that evening, we started to worry. I took Abbe to the Pediatric A&E.

We were lucky Abbe wasn’t there because of a flu. There are different doctors at the Children’s A&E and children with a cold had to wait many hours. But for once, we didn’t have to wait too long.

The doctor squeezed him a bit, sent us away for an X-ray, showed me the images and the fracture was indeed a fact. Time to get plastered. Or at least that’s what he thought.

Abbe – who by this stage have a long experience of hospitals – gets scared, angry and sad as soon as he sees anyone in a white uniform. And as soon as dad starts holding him, he knows what’s coming. So, we never got any plaster. The doctor tried some sort of splint instead, but since Abbe protested loudly, the doctor gave up that idea as well.

– Children at this age heal extremely well, he says.
– Even a significantly dislocated fracture usually sorts itself out on these little children.
– We shouldn’t put this little fellow under more stress than we have to. He’s been through so much already. I’ll make him a supportive bandage. This will be great anyway.

And this is when I want to turn to the entire orthopaedic department, to say: There is empathy even in your profession. All is forgiven.

4 February 2007

The gastroscopy result.

So, finally, he has been in touch and told us what Abbe’s stomach looks like inside. And it really ended up being a ‘good-things-come-to-those-who-wait’ kinda thing.

Abbe does not have gluten intolerance. Thank goodness. I think he has enough problems as it is, if I may say so myself. Damn, it feels so good to not have to deal with that, too. All in all, a good day.

2 February 2007

The mask.

Today, we did an MRI scan, in preparation for Abbe’s next heart operation. And because there was no needle yesterday, he was now to be sedated using a mask.

Abbe usually falls asleep with me holding him in my arms when we go through operations and examinations where sedation is needed. I don't know if I’m so keen to hold him in these situations, that my wife never gets the chance to do it. Or if she thinks it’s tough. I think it’s the former. Personally, I think it somehow feels safe to have him in my arms when he falls asleep. But, that’s when a needle is inserted and the anesthesia enters that way.

Today was different. He was to be sedated with a mask and we then usually leave it all to the anesthetists. But not this time. I sat with Abbe in my arms. They made him breathe in something soothing and odourless via the mask, to relax. So far, so good. But when they turned on the actual anaesthetic, he didn’t want to know.

I don’t know if it was the smell of it or whatever it was, but he was wriggling and struggling, trying to fight his way out of my arms. It was terrible. I had to hold him in a firm grip and press the mask over his mouth. Until he became all limp and stopped wriggling. It felt as if I killed him. Like in a film where James Bond holds something deadly to the mouth of an enemy, until he becomes limp. Ugh.