Monday, August 17, 2009
There's something rotten in Denmark and that something is my toddler's arm, or rather, the thing currently holding his arm in place.
We were sent home two weeks ago from the orthopedist with simple instructions: Don't get the cast wet. They might as well have sent us home with a bucket of water and instructions to dip his arm in it every hour on the hour.
So, no secret here. Cast got wet. It happened several nights ago during bath time. We diligently wrapped his arm in a trashbag (yes, a trashbag), knotting it above the elbow. J threw his prerequisite What-the-Hell-Are-You-Crazy-People-Doing-
Tying-a-Garbage -Bag-Around-My-Arm/Thanks-for-the-Awesome-Elephant-Arm/Ever-Heard-of-a-Ziplock screaming fit. Don't ask why we didn't just use a smaller bag. T started in with the trash bag and even though the site of my toddler with an enormous balloon as an appendage was beyond ridiculous, I decided to defer to his father (Lesson #327 in marriage: Pick your battles).
Crazy looking, or not, the trash bag method had worked...up until now. Who was to know we had a faulty Hefty on our hands? As I took J from T and started to dry him off, I noticed a little pool of water at the bottom of the bag.
"T! This bag has water in it!" I yelled.
"What? Look, I did my best OK????? How was I to know the bag had a hole in it?!?" (Lesson #399 in marriage: Accusing your husband -- even if it is not on purpose -- of doing something stupid will get you nothing but a big water balloon of defensive-man ego thrown in your face. )
I mopped J's hand with a towel and had a moment of clarity: hairdryer. Took the hairdryer out and started blowing it on the inside of the cast. Things were looking good.
"Wow, honey, great idea," said the Peanut Gallery. That's right it was a great idea. I'm the brains of the operation, buddy, and don't you forget it.
(Lesson #421 in marriage: Eventually, it will have to be enough for you, and you alone, to know who's the smarter one.)
I thought I'd gotten it pretty dry, but a couple days later, as my child hugged me -- his arm strategically placed near my nose -- I immediately knew things had NOT gotten completely dry. Dirty gym socks? Rotten cheese? A toxic combination of the two? My body immediately pulled back, knowing instinctively that it was in the presence of evil.
I called the doctor as a precaution. Stinky, wet cast is one thing. But, stinky, infected arm is quite another. He asked a few questions about the duration, strength and offensiveness of the odor. After a couple of minutes, he labeled our case a "low-grade" cast stank and recommended we let it go a couple days since the odor only elicited a physical reaction when you got up there and sniffed his arm.
Still, if it gets really bad, we may have to go in and have it replaced.
So, not only does the kid have to run around left-handed for another couple of weeks, but he also smells like an armpit. Poor, stinky little J. And, to think...he hasn't even hit puberty yet.
Posted by Rosana V. at 8:32 PM