M and I paid our....fourth? fifth? (frankly, I've lost count) visit to the hospital today for The Great Cast Removal.
They used a saw to remove it. One of those plugged-into-the-mains-fast-whirring-high-pitched-squealing jobs that sets your teeth on edge and, if you are of a nervous disposition (which I'm not) makes you feel that fainting (in order not to be able to hear it any longer and therefore imagine what horrors it is committing against the helpless and decidedly fleshy arm beneath the cast) is probably a good option. Had I been an Edwardian lady of a delicate nature, I would probably have swooned, but given that my last 5 days have been largely defined by cleaning up various bodily fluids from children and animals, I didn't.
The cast came off quickly (videoed at M's request by yours truly) and then we sat in the waiting room for well over an hour before the consultant saw us. Upon arrival M had been presented with a 'waiting time survey' which, on a day when staff numbers were drastically reduced because everyone was off with their kids over half term, seemed a little absurd to say the least. The irony of this was not lost on us.
Knowing how these things work (from bitter experience) we had both come prepared. M had a book entitled 'Bounce' which is not (as the title might suggest) a racy gentleman's novel, but rather a study of the value of training over talent in sport (yawn). And I had several books on trees and woodlands for an essay I am currently writing for school ('stop calling it SCHOOL mum! It's COLLEGE!' say the kids. So of course I carry on) as well as a nice new notepad with butterflies (which I am pretending are moths) on the front to write notes in.
Mine was by far the more interesting of the two and I educated the entire waiting room on the delights of the WildWood and important snippets such as which trees are really native to Britain (not as many as you'd think) and when the WildWood faded from sight (ages ago) and why traditional foresting techniques such as pollarding and coppicing are actually better for the trees and the wild things that rely on them than what happens now eg not pollarding and coppicing.
Given that the other occupants of the waiting room were all screaming down their mobiles things like: 'I know babes! Can you believe he said that! I told him, I said:' you're a f****ing w***er mate and it's time someone told you, you aren't all that. I'm never going with him again!" You can imagine how happy they were to receive my running tree commentary.
Anyway, eventually we were called in to see the same nympho-consultant as before- remember the one with the knee-length furry boots, very short skirt and a top that left little to the imagination? (M was pleased, I was disgruntled).
She wobbled the wrist around and make various cooing noises of admiration before pronouncing herself very pleased with the results (arnica, healing and symphytum I said, stoutly, which she ignored. In fact, she ignored me entirely, being presumably too busy mentally comparing my husband with Daniel Craig, which happens a lot, to the point I've learnt to recognise the expression). No heavy lifting for a month, she said (M managed not to look at me as she said it, which was a good thing otherwise he would have found himself walking home), some light rotation etc exercises and a strap on it during the day to warn people not to whack it, and she'll see him again in 3 weeks.
He is pleased, and back to being able to drive himself about like an adult instead of needing lifts from me and the parents in order to get places. I should add that he has got back to running during the last fortnight while the cast was still on, and notched up 21 miles last week, which is infuriating because he's done nothing for 3 weeks and picks it up like he's only had a day off, whereas I, who have been running religiously (that's several times a week, not in a nun's outfit complete with wimple) manage approx 5 miles a week. There is no stopping the man, the best you can do is try to slow him down a little.
Anyway, that's all Good Stuff, and I can stop worrying that he'll lose the use of that hand now.
To celebrate (in reverse order) we went out en famille for supper last night, which was lovely. And then in a fashion that well and truly sums up the week I have had, we got home to discover that Pop's emergency healing diet of fish and chicken, which Ted has been sharing and which has worked for Pops, had not agreed with him at all to the extent that he had an enormous mat of semi-dried poo stuck to his bottom and tail.
So picture the scene: me, in my glad-rags, smart dangly earrings, freshly clean and dried hair, makeup and high heels wearing surgical gloves standing outside in the drizzle washing a lump of freshly congealed poo from Ted's backside. He wasn't very happy about the whole procedure (who can blame him) so when it was over he came indoors and shook it all over the newly-decorated rose pink walls just to make the point. Sigh. Pops then topped the whole thing off by dragging a cushion off the chair and weeing on it under the table. The only mercy is that L appears to have stopped being sick and is now reinstated back in his own bedroom, although he is now asking to be allowed to listen to Dara O'Briain as his book at bed time.
Surely the week can only get better......
Hope all are well,