The weeks that were


Have you ever sat back after a couple of weeks have passed, and thought, Man what just happened? We have just had that.

Exactly two weeks ago we went over to a neighbour’s to have a couple of Saturday afternoon beers while Nigel helped set up their drone. He was nearly finished and I was ready to go home and get dinner sorted. As I turned around to let the kids know to start getting ready, I spotted the middle child taking a flying (and unprepared) leap through the air off the trampoline onto the ground due to a misplaced jump. Cue crying about a sore arm. And yet, in all of my concerned motherly love, I said my fellow mum sitting next to me, “Well, it can’t be broken, because he’d be screaming a bit more, wouldn’t he?”…

About two hours later, we had been home for a bit, Panadol had been consumed, and swelling was starting to form on his wrist. So I called the local hospital which is about 25 minutes away and wondered, “If we come in tonight, will his arm be x-rayed or will we have to wait until the morning?” To which the nurse responded? “Not at all. We don’t have anyone qualified to take x-ray’s here.” Say what?!

So we waited until morning (only one dose of Nurofen later, so I was thinking maybe a sprain?) and when the doctor’s surgery in a different town opened (30 minutes away), I rang them. You see, maybe about 2 years ago, to much fanfare and town excitement, an x-ray room had had a grand opening in their surgery. But alas. No-one currently there is qualified to use it. At this point, the kid’s wrist was still swollen but since his dose of pain meds 10 hours earlier, it wasn’t hurting. I didn’t want to be the mother whose child had a broken arm for a week before they realised, so I rang another hospital in another town (about 1 hr 15 mins away) and again wondered, “If we drive over, will his arm be x-rayed?” Guess what the answer was?… “I’m sorry, but you will need to ring the doctor’s surgery at 9am and get an appointment and if they don’t think it is a bad break, they possibly won’t x-ray until the next day.” Because of course it was Sunday at this stage. Note to self: don’t break a bone on the weekend!

Of course, we did what any loving parents do, and we hopped in the car and drove for two and a quarter hours to go to the closest major centre to visit the hospital there. Just prior to this, while I was making all of these phone calls, I had seen my son on his PowerWing, gliding around on the cement…

So was it broken you ask? Well, yes.

Can you spot the break?

Can you spot the break?

It soon transpired that he would not be attempting to learn how to single ski for the four days we were planning to be out at the dam over Easter. This would also mean that he would not be learning to bank-start after he miraculously learnt how to get up on the single in one day. He was however, able to jump into the kayak and be paddled around like a King.


The entire camp dined on sweet chilli and garlic red-claw two afternoons in a row due to the catches that were pulled in from pots around the dam off the kayak (in addition to quite a few that were delivered by a grey nomad who liked catching them but didn’t want to cook them for himself).

I am getting ahead of myself though!

After we had driven to town for the day to have an arm x-rayed and put in a back-slab (to be put in a proper cast after 4-6 days when the swelling reduced) we arrived back to a cooked dinner at my mother-in-laws. Because who feels like cooking after driving around the countryside for a day? This is what we do – if one or the other gets back late in the day, the other cooks. And no, we don’t live in the same house – but 600m away 🙂

All was good. The boy wasn’t in pain, just excited to show photos of the x-rays to all who would look.

To save his embarrassment in years to come if he is ever to read this here blog, I won’t go into the extreme details of what happened over the next couple of days. Needless to say, we arrived at the doctor’s surgery first thing the next day – for a different situation that had arisen overnight, or should I say, an hour after we had arrived home from being at a hospital for half the morning – and were told to head straight to an emergency department. FARK.

Off we toddled (rather quickly) back to hospital where the triage nurse put us straight through… by the time I had filled out the paperwork for him to be seen, the surgeons had already come and gone and were talking emergency ultrasounds and emergency surgery. FARK.

But, the surgical registrar came by and had a look, said nah, it’s not an emergency, he’s not in any pain and three hours later he had an ultrasound (after being shafted back to the emergency waiting ward with all of the spewers who had come in that day also). At which stage the ultrasound lady said, hmm I think it’s an emergency. FARK.

Discussions were had about our son being transported to a more major hospital where there were paediatric specialists – until the surgical registrar came by and went, nah I still don’t think it’s an emergency, he’s not in any pain. He can stay in overnight for observation.

You can imagine what we were like at this stage. Who are you meant to believe? It’s an emergency. Then it’s not an emergency.  Then it’s an emergency. Then it’s not an emergency. Jesus.

Turns out, it wasn’t an emergency. We think. And by 3-4 days later everything was back to normal. Apart from the broken arm 🙂

Moral of the story folks? Don’t take a misplaced jump off the trampoline onto the hard ground. And it is quite possible to enjoy three days out at a dam even if you can’t get in the water. You just need your own personal kayak paddler. And a soft ball to kick around. That’s a bonus.

Anyone have a similar (partially-dramatic) story involving hospitals?

2 thoughts on “The weeks that were

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