If there’s a few things I know to be absolutely true about my littlest is that he is determined (although some prefer to call this “stubborn”), and special (in the sense of he has a remarkable ability to do things that are quite rare and unusual, even amongst highly experienced professionals).
Given he his hair hadn’t been washed for almost a fortnight, and that the recommended “don’t get the glue wet” period of five days had occurred three days earlier … oh, wait … there’s a small bit you don’t know …
wibble wobble wibble wobble Let me take you back to nine days ago.
It was a Saturday morning, and the glue that had been holding his head together for four full days, and five full nights, appeared to have simply given up.
(I still haven’t received my Badge Sewing On Badge, so was unable to apply it in place of the unstuck glue.)
The ooze was apparent through the dressing on Friday evening, and by Saturday morning, it was evident it needed a good seeing to. Being pre-6.00am on a Saturday morning, and with a full day of standard events planned, I figured we’d go back to the source of the original gluing, rather than wait for our GP to open, drive the additional distance, and hope we could be seen.
Instead, we were afforded a little over an hour of fish watching in the Emergency Department waiting area of Melbourne’s Royal Children’s Hospital, and in a little over two hours total, we were out, with a reglued head.
Aside from the usual array of questions (what’s his birthdate; is he allergic to anything; etc) came the “what did he do that cause it to open?” to which the answer was “nothing”; for that is precisely what he’d done.
The new glue, however, appeared to be doing a fabulous job.
Until his shower.
Chippie, being remarkably talented, came out to advise the glue had come off. Although I had a slight spark of worry, I also have no experience whatsoever in these sorts of wound-gluing experiences, so honestly wans’t sure if the glue coming off entirely was a problem or not. I mean, when I saw it a few days ago, and reapplied some steri-strip to make sure, it looked well and truly stuck together.
Then I saw the gaping hole in his head.
And told him to get his jarmies on, grab a jacket, put some socks on, and we’d go back to the Children’s with a positive, third-time-lucky sort of attitude.
He, instead, sat naked on his bed, sulked a bit, and then asked if we could draw eyes and a nose above the wound, because, really, it did look like a mouth.
To get him moving, I said “yes”, but by then I was driving, he was dressed, and we’d applied some bandaids in a fashionable cross pattern, which I was advised would attract pirates looking for treasure. I didn’t like their luck; it looked like the zombies had already been and taken their fill.
Upon arrival, it being our third time in thirteen days, I directed him to a seat to wait, and had my Medicare card at the ready before we’d even got in the door.
“Next please,” said the triage nurse. “Oh, wait a moment. I’ll be with you shortly. If you could have your Medicare card ready, that will speed things up.”
“Already on it,” I replied, gaily. “I’m now very familiar with the drill.”
“Very good,” she says, and I think I made her night just that little bit nicer.
It wasn’t long before we were called to see the next nurse to determine where we would be directed next.
“Did he do anything to open it again?” she asks.
“He had a shower,” I replied.
“And did he rub his face hard with a towel? Or bump it again? Has he knocked it on anything?” she enquired.
It was, quite literally, just a shower, and we were let through to Gagte 2; the real proper Emergency Waiting Area.
This could very well have been its very own Sunday Sports Live – The Aftermath. An array of sport uniform attired youths, of the mostly teenage variety, were scattered around the waiting area, arms in slings, feet raised, iced, and compressed.
They were amidst an even greater array of screaming toddlers.
I rang Grumpy and asked him to bring food; we’d been advised we’d be awhile.
Inevitably, just as he arrived with food, we were called into the Fast Track area. This is an area designed for those isuses that are, perhaps, not so emergency, but still in need of medical attention. It was Chippie, Grumpy and I, and half a team of sport team clad, not-quite-mortally wounded children (all of whom were taller than me, which is a little daunting).
So we had a bed and some more waiting, and eventually, after a few knees had been pulled back into place, and x-rays had been confirmed, diagnosed, and some kids sent to the anaethetist, and others sent home, we got a seeing too.
The artfully placed bandaids on Chippie’s forehead were removed, and the nurse applied gentle pressure to the area around the wound to feel for any … whatever it is they feel for.
A big blob of pus oozed out. The three of us (Grumpy, the nurse, and I) looked at each other and simultaneously declared “that doesn’t look good”.
There were, aside from this latest development, zero signs of infection.
Another small poke, and more goo blobbed up and out. It was starting to look decidingly, well, “euwwwy” I believe is the technical medical term.
Off the nurse went to gather the tools she needed and work out where to send us next. Another poke, more pus, and Chippie, bored with the whole thing, and frustrated at our persistent disruption of his TV watching, flopped his arm over his head … smearing pus and ooze up his arm.
A second nurse arrived, with a syringe the size they use to artificially inseminate cows; something in the vicinity of a metre long, and a trolley laden with gauze, tape, and other medical paraphernalia. I wasn’t freaked. I experienced that excitement one often experiences when they enter pharmacies and stationery megastores, and you are just inspired by the range of products and you