Tag Archives: hospital

How do you get medical glue out of hair?

TOUCH wood, we haven’t had to attend hospital too much over the 13 years we’ve been parents. But Billy managed to end a recent day out with a trip to A&E after bashing his head (we’re still not sure how) and bleeding profusely.

The wailing only really started when tactful Dougie, who ran to his aid, started saying things like: “Cor, there’s loads of blood, look, it’s really bleeding, he’s got blood all over him, it’s gushing . . .”

Once we, and some helpful fellow parents, had managed to calm him down and stem the flow, we tried to work our way through his matted hair to find out how bad/deep the cut was. It was only about an inch and a half, but looked like it might need a stitch (we mimed this idea to each other out of his eye-sight so’s not to start him wailing again).

We headed for MIMIU, the minor injuries and minor illness unit on Cliftonville Road in
Northampton. It was a Sunday, we thought we were doing the right thing, but apparently not.

After a bizarre one-way conversation with the receptionist (I talked, she typed) we deduced that you are supposed to ring ahead or get referred by your GP. A passing medic stopped to examine Billy’s cut an agree that it did closing with medical glue, and asked the same receptionist to find out if the nursing staff had any. The minor injuries unit didn’t necessarily have the right kit to fix a cut!

A further bizarre wait while the receptionist emailed the unseen nurses, then explained she
then had to wait for them to see the emails and reply. No phones or feet in use then?

Cricket boy

Inevitably, we were sent up to the main A&E department. Thankfully Bloke had waited with
the other kids in the car or it would have been a long walk. A&E booked him in, assessed him, sent us to a play area and patched him up, all in half an hour.

Billy’s cut paled into insignificance when I was talking to a fellow mum, whose toddler daughter had run into a heavy chair and needed several stitches in her forehead, under general anaesthetic. Billy was lucky.

A week later, with no proper hair wash, Bill’s bonce seems to have healed. But please, how on earth do you get a big clump of medical superglue out of hair?

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By ‘eck grommets (Part II)

BILLY finally had his ear operation. And he seems absolutely fine. It was a huge relief to get it done.

Billy after his ear operation, not happy to be interrupted eating after eight hours nil-by-mouth

I feel a little embarrassed now, by how worried I was about my six-year-old going into hospital to get grommets fitted in his ears. After all, there are parents who have had to endure far worse with far, far poorlier kids.

And people were really lovely, very reassuring, very understanding. It wasn’t the actual operation I was too worried about, it was watching him be put under. I was worried I would blub in front of him.

It’s ridiculous. I used to be tough. I had some grim jobs as a junior reporter, having to do the dreaded ‘death knock,’ when someone has died and the paper send you to knock on the door of the bereaved. After I had children I couldn’t do them. I’d be on the doorstep in tears before they even answered. I became a snivelling wreck, crying at just about everything. TV shows. Sports events. Christmas. *Sniffs. Pathetic.

Bloke had taken the day off for Friday’s op, and we’d tried to be as nonchalant as possible with Billy, reassuring him without raising his suspicions that something scary was going to happen.

I thought Bloke would volunteer to go down to be with Bill in the anaesthesia room. Nope. He made me do it. He told me that Billy would want me there, and that I would be able to hold back the tears for his sake.

He was right, of course. I chatted incessantly until he was out-for-the-count. It was horrible to watch, I felt I had a weight on my heart, but I didn’t cry. Not until I was in the ladies loo anyway, and it was over in a nose-blow.

Everyone at Northampton General Hospital was great (although predictably understaffed). Everything from getting him settled and into his robe (“but it shows my pants!”) to having him come round and recover. He had a little cry in the recovery room, disorientated and a little tender. But with the help of smiley nurses and porters, a dose of paracetamol, some warm toast and a Penguin biscuit, and he was back to his usual self and complaining about how loud everyone was being.

We were in at 12noon, and out just before 6pm. I’m very grateful to all involved. He’s not complained once and is only grumpy about the fact he can’t go swimming for six weeks.

As I put him to bed last night, he said: “Mum, I ever don’t want to have any operations again, OK?” I told him I couldn’t promise, but hopefully that would be it. I didn’t tell him the little boy in the next bed was in for his second grommet op in two years.

Fingers crossed, he’s fixed. . .

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