At the age of nine, our second child began to walk with a mild limp. She was promptly taken to a doctor and subsequently a specialist who diagnosed her with a condition known as limb length discrepancy, meaning one leg was longer than the other. This is a surprisingly common occurrence, with many people possessing slight differences in their limb lengths. However, our daughter’s condition was more serious than most, necessitating surgical intervention to extend her shorter leg.
The surgical procedure, akin to a practice from the Dark Ages, involved breaking the leg and installing a frame around the fracture. This frame, complete with dials, was used to slowly elongate the limb, thereby allowing new bone formation. Despite the grisly nature of the operation, it was a success in the end and our second daughter managed to cope remarkably well throughout the process.
However, the day of surgery was truly challenging for all of us. It was a day that particularly stands out in my memory, as I felt I failed her. The anticipation of the procedure understandably caused her distress and her fears amplified upon seeing the operating room. The intimidating space was filled with advanced medical equipment, dimly lit and held a prominently placed, intricate bed that dominated the room under glaring lights. It bore an eerie resemblance to some sort of sci-fi torture chamber.
Nevertheless, I managed to encourage her into the room and onto the surgical bed. The situation escalated when the anaesthetist burst into the room, her commanding voice echoing off the walls. The tranquil professionalism we had grown used to quickly morphed into a nearly chaotic atmosphere.
The anaesthetist’s naturally booming voice and brusque manner weren’t intentional. She mispronounced the name of my second daughter, looking at a medical report before furiously assuring her, in a high decibel voice, that she had nothing to fear. With years of experience, she always ensured a calm atmosphere. She proceeded to play some soft melodies, perhaps the sound of whales, I cannot recall correctly, as my focus turned to my second daughter. She had moved away from this loud individual and was becoming increasingly anxious. The lady, in her means to pacify her, ended up shouting even more. It was strange, for someone with a supposedly voluminous amount of experience, she thought repeating ‘calm down’ incessantly was the optimal approach to soothe someone’s nerves.
Today, my second daughter recounts the incident with a touch of humour – The loud lady at the hospital. However, it wasn’t amusing at the time. In the following weeks, my daughter had trouble falling asleep. The sensation of drifting into slumber triggered memories of the feeling of helplessness she felt while at the hospital.
David Carey, the respected child psychologist, preached the idea that one doesn’t necessarily have to be a perfect parent, being adequate is enough. I’d concur, and add that, there will inevitably come a point where you fail your children, which can sometimes be in a significant way. It’s paramount to pardon oneself and hope the children reciprocate.