Plaster Casts and Broken Plans by Clair Wright

Two weeks ago we had a minor family drama when our youngest, Oliver, (7), broke his wrist.  After a visit to the operating theatre and a night in our wonderful local hospital, Oliver was the proud bearer of a plaster cast, and apparently none the worst for his accident.

As I sat by his hospital bed, I mentally ticked off all the plans we had for the next few weeks which would now have to change – a dance exam, a drum exam, a birthday party at a climbing wall, another at a swimming pool, a rounders match. The list went on and on. I would have to choose my moment to run Oliver through this catalogue of disappointments. 

It had been an ordinary day in half term. We were visiting a local adventure playground with one of Oliver’s friends, we had a picnic lunch, and I was thinking it would soon be time to head home. Then suddenly, (and following a particularly enthusiastic shove from his older brother), Oliver fell from the zip wire. 

And everything changed. In an instant, we were spun onto a different course entirely.  

After a panicky phone call, a friend stepped in to help out with the other children. We set off to Accident and Emergency with Oliver cradling his arm, which was now a queasy, unnatural shape.

This was a problem Mum couldn’t fix – we needed the professionals. We allowed ourselves to be carried along by the well-oiled hospital machine. Oliver was surprisingly stoic as he was examined, x-rayed, plastered, and patched up, while I, in bewilderment, consented to anesthetics, surgery, and all the rest.

A broken arm is a very minor thing in the scheme of things. Friends have commented that for a child it is almost a rite of passage.  But it reminded me of the fragility of our grand plans and packed diaries. 

If this had been a work of fiction, we might have expected some warning from the writer that trouble was round the corner; a metaphorical rumbling of thunder on the horizon, dark clouds looming ominously. Real life is not like that. On the sunniest of days with the clearest of skies, the predictable plot we had planned can be sabotaged. 

“It’s not fair!” wails Oliver in his bleaker moments. He’s right, of course. It’s not fair at all. But we can be grateful it was only a broken arm this time. It might be itchy and uncomfortable, but in a few weeks we will be back to normal.  In the meantime he is quite enjoying his moment in the spotlight, as class-mates write on his pot, and strangers cluck sympathetically. And for months to come, he’ll have a dramatic new tale to tell.