No More Cast
Greetings to all.
Today, Xavier got his cast removed. It was not pleasant for anyone.
As we waited in the room, Xavier found a number of trucks to play with. However, we did not let him play with them; they were ornamental knickknacks and not boy friendly.
He was a little hungry, but too much newness kept him from eating. Eating could wait! The newness had to be explored!
Instead of getting to explore, the nurses took height and weight measurements and temperature. They tried to take an O2 reading, but Xavier loudly refused to have the oximeter clipped to any part of his body. He clung to Daddy, begging for deliverance. Rebecca finally waved the nurse off.
"You just took this reading last week, at his weight check," she informed the nurse. The nurse, bent on getting a current reading, looked as though she dismissed the notion. The glaring heat from Rebecca's displeasure likely counseled her to pack up her gear and go. Rebecca, after all, was correct, and the nurse was too caught up in procedure to apply common sense.
The nurse returned shortly with another nurse. We brought Xavier to the examining bench while one nurse hooked up the saw. In my day, casts were plaster and the saw blade did nothing but vibrate enough to slice through the plaster. You could actually take hold of the vibrating blade and it would stop. Not so with this saw: it needed to cut through a half inch of fiberglass. It was a fully functional hand-held rotatory saw, one whose blade you did not take hold of when it was spinning!
Before the saw was turned on, Xavier knew what was afoot: he had reasoned it out and he did not like it, not one bit. Again, he clung to Daddy for protection.
The nurse switched on the saw. It came to life with a whirring roar. It whined with a high pitch hum just to season the air with that much more terror for a little boy who did not fully comprehend what was happening. He clung tighter to Daddy, screaming and crying, once more begging to be delivered from the danger.
Tears streamed down his face and his cries grew louder. He looked to Mommy for help, but like his Daddy, she helped hold him tight while two nurses held tight his left arm.
The saw cut into the fiberglass. There was no guard around the blade, no depth gauge to prevent the saw from plunging too deeply into the cast and into the flesh it was a shell to. Even Daddy watching the procedure trembled.
My son was terrified beyond anything he has ever known. Both his mother and father took strong parts in subjecting him to it. No help came from anyone, and he screamed at that fact. You could see in his face, hear in his cries and yelps, his sense of betrayal.
The cast was cut through, no damage to his skin beneath, though I was sure the nurse had slipped a couple of times. It would take a long time for Xavier to calm down, his heaving breathing to subside.
The nurses left the room, leaving the parents to the damage control. We took down one of the big knickknacky firetrucks Xavier wanted to play with at the beginning. Once he saw it coming his way, all was forgiven.