Last Wednesday night, while sitting in Alberlito’s emergency room having my 3-year-old’s broken leg strapped, it occurred to me that I was surprisingly calm.
My book club had been meeting at my house that night and my kind friends had offered to go with me to the hospital as Pieter had to stay home with our older child.
But I realised that I was not in the least stressed about possibly spending the night in hospital.
Broken bones no longer phase me too much.
It’s definitely a headache and my heart hurts for my little Rambo (aka Ruben) to be in a cast again.
But I knew we are going to be OK.
The boys – which includes my husband – had been rough-housing when Ruben and Piet crashed into each other at full speed and everyone went flying like a lot of skittles.
My mind flashed back to my first ’emergency’ hospital visit some 6 years ago and boy, oh boy, was I a different person!
Looking back I realise that it is not the size of the problem that determines our ability to cope but the level to which we are mentally prepared.
My first born, Daniël was a week old and we had been ordered back to hospital for jaundice treatment.
Newborn jaundice is very common and is caused by a high level of bilirubin, a yellow pigment produced during normal breakdown of red blood cells.
It can be dangerous but the treatment is usually very effective.
Daniël was placed on a special bed under a blue spectrum light wearing only a diaper and special protective goggles.
While the opposite is now known to be true, at the time it was thought that breast milk should be stopped during jaundice treatment.
Things were not going to plan.
I was a total mess.
Not only was I back in hospital but I had no idea how to mix formula.
I had no grid of reference for how to cope and despite having just been discharged from hospital a week before, I had no clue how the system operated.
For example, when you are admitted for baby’s birth your meals are delivered 3 times a day.
But when your baby is admitted and you are sleeping on a chair, suddenly you need to buy a meal ticket.
At the time they were almost giving them away, only R20.
But you had to buy them the night before.
We had arrived late and Piet had left without knowing to buy me the required meal tickets.
Suddenly the thought of, on top of everything else, not having breakfast was too much for me.
If anyone asked if I was OK I just dissolved into tears.
“Because… because… I don’t have any breakfast!”
All the nurses were in a flutter over this mother who was falling apart, and before you could say ‘eggs on toast’ I had 3 breakfasts delivered to me.
A nurse gave up his own meal ticket, my neighbour in the ward (a more seasoned mother) shared her food stash and I cannot even remember where the third one came from.
I was a little embarrassed but mostly grateful for the extreme kindness everyone had shown me when I knew my problem did not even rank on the list of real reasons to cry into your tea (or lack thereof).
