In Case of Incapacitation

Since having the Small Girl nearly three years ago, I’ve often wondered what I would do if I were suddenly taken ill; a bad dose of the flu, for example, or a particularly debilitating hangover. My able-bodied presence in the house has become even more important now that the Very Small Boy has joined the family and somewhat ironically, I found myself wondering on Thursday afternoon what on earth would happen if I suddenly became unable to carry out the demanding role of caring for the children.

I say ironically, because by early evening I was feeling distinctly unwell and decided to get an early night. Unfortunately, sleep evaded me; mild stomach cramps and nausea soon gave way to crippling pain and violent vomiting. Assuming it must be a particularly virulent bout of food poisoning, I resigned myself to a few hours of distress, but as the long night wore on, things didn’t seem to be improving. Funnily enough, despite my suffering, I could only think of the children: with every flush of the toilet, I felt more anxious in case I woke them. And, some time in the small hours, unable any longer even to stand, I lay with my cheek against the cool tile of the bathroom floor, fretting silently to myself about how I would look after the Very Small Boy when he inevitably woke for his middle of the night feed.

“You’ll have to take the day off”, I whimpered to DH shortly afterwards, as he lifted the Very Small Boy back into his cot and guided me back to bed. And he did, and my question was answered – if something happens to me, he steps in smoothly and life carries on as normal for the children; I’m not as indispensable as I’d probably like to think I am.

He made breakfast for the Small Girl, dressed and changed the Very Small Boy and then shipped me off to the doctor, who sent me straight to A&E. Without even allowing me to say goodbye to my children, they admitted me to hospital and sent me straight to theatre to have my appendix removed.

“But I can’t stay here”, I protested as they wheeled me down the long, stark corridor in my hospital gown “I’m still breastfeeding! My baby needs me…”. The porter ignored me so, lying on the operating table, I tried to reason with the anaesthetist: “Please don’t give me anything that will compromise breastfeeding my baby!”. He ignored me too.

I had no choice but to remain where I was, recovering, for two nights. The kind doctor who operated told me afterwards that they had performed keyhole surgery with the help of a tiny camera, via three one-inch incisions on different sides of my tummy. Feeling vaguely like one of those people who get abducted by aliens and have weird things done to them, I wondered whether it wouldn’t have just been easier to make one three-inch incision over my appendix and take it out the old-fashioned way.

Looking around me, I noticed that I was the youngest person on my ward by a good fifty years. For two whole days, I was confronted with this sad vision of the way most of us will probably end up; reduced by age and incapacity back to childhood, being gently guided to the toilet or cajoled into eating jelly by our grown children. Still I thought, as I watched the ancient old dear in the bed opposite me, I could do worse than to end up being tenderly humoured by my doting grandchildren as I complained about the way they were putting in my false teeth.

I was finally allowed to return home to the land of the young and the immortal this afternoon, and I did apologise to the lovely nurse for being such a difficult patient. “You should try being married to her!”, murmured DH good-humouredly. He drove me home to the children, who were being looked after by Nanny and Grandpa, and I had a joyful reunion with the Small Girl, who had made me chocolate cornflake cakes. When the Very Small Boy woke from his nap, I eagerly ran upstairs to get him.

As soon as he saw me, he burst out crying and reached out desperately for me. I swooped him up for a cuddle. “Hello baby!” I cried into his soft, fluffy hair. “Don’t worry, Mummy’s home” I whispered in his ear. “Mummy’s here, and it was all a dream. It was all just a bad dream”.