Thursday, 12 December 2013

Up my nose Daddy

I had been with Esme getting her new glasses (Elton John eat your heart out - but that's another post), when we arrived home to find Daddy with a pair of tweezers up Sofia's nostril. Apparently, she'd appeared in front of him five minutes before exclaiming, "Up my nose Daddy."

"I've almost got it," says Simon, sweating profusely, "but it's up so high." And with that our darling Sofia sniffed, and the little plastic jewel that was just out of reach, disappeared completely.




"NHS Direct," we said simultaneously. 
"Go to A&E," they said, "immediately." 
"Can she have her nap first?" we asked, hopefully.
"Go to A&E." they said repeatedly.

We headed to the Royal Surrey yet again. They recognised me this time - which is saying something when you consider the staff turnover and shift systems. 

Eventually A&E became the children's ward, where there's a fantastic playroom which I love; it is so far removed from a hospital, you can easily forget where you are. Until you look at your child that is, and see a now bright red eye oozing gunge. The nurse informed me it was down to Sofia's blockage. Ah the little gem.

Doctors, a registrar and finally, a consultant later; Sofia and I were in for the night.

Except we weren't. Much to both my relief and embarrassment, we were expelled. At 10.30pm the sister's words to the registrar were, "You have to let Sofia go home. She is keeping my entire ward awake."

What Sofia was doing in fact, was using the cot bed as a trampoline. And setting off the alarms that were within reach. And singing at the top of her voice. And pulling the cubicle curtain open inch by inch, (the one I closed to try to quieten her down), revealing herself once more to the ward shouting, "Hello everybody." Before... (and I personally feel this was the piste de resistance)... blowing raspberries. Endless, full-bodied raspberries. You know the sort that shower spit.

My just 2YO, and it has to be said, usually good little sleeper, was having none of it. And why would she, when she had an entire audience to perform to?

Driving home, on an A3 that was partially shut, Sofia of course, fell fast asleep. Somewhere on the back roads, she let go of three tremendously violent sneezes. The sort that derive from having something up your nose that shouldn't be there. I'll admit, at that point I thought to myself, 'There it goes.'

Home again, and I used my phone to light her up, looking for the potentially sneezed out jewel. No chance, so small. So late. Simon appeared and carried her to bed. He was somewhat surprised to hear we had been discharged for the night, they'd harped on and on about the risk of choking. I think I grimaced as I said, 'You had to be there.'

We were back on the ward at 7.30am and as Sofia was having a general, she was not allowed anything to eat or drink. Thank goodness, she only mentioned food once and there weren't any emergencies to push her theatre slot back. Exactly how do you explain that to a 2YO? 'No, sorry. The kitchen is closed today. You have to starve, indefinitely.'

By 10am, Sofia was gowned up and heading down for her procedure. She made the entire Ear, Nose and Throat team laugh by saying the gas balloon she was trying to blow up for them was not working. 

I held her in my arms. She turned her face to look into my eyes, right as the gas was working. Before she closed her eyes and went limp, I managed to tell her I loved her. I lay her on the bed and didn't look back. 

Instead I walked to Simon. Together we went for a cup of tea. A little bit of sugar. And waited for the bleeper to signal she was back with us. And waited...

As we sat there, Simon took my hand, asking, "Are you okay Em?" "Darling, I'm fine. You know why? Because I know this is not going to be the last time that we do this with Sofia. Unfortunately, she is just that sort of kid."