The Bones Of You.

The Bones Of You, Little Child....

Never in the history of bad news has bad news been so welcome....

To explain- The Child has been complaining of a sore leg.
Off to the Quack with her.
Quack says- "Xrays/Tests/Other Shit- STAT!!!!"

First diagnosis, Osgood-Schlatter Syndrome, which sounds FAR too Anglo-Germanic to be healthy, and obviously something that no ten year old should endure.

How would she be able to spell it,when I cant, for fucks sake?????

A week is a long time in politics.

Four days of nailbiting parental terror is a hell of a lot fucking longer.

Eat that, you political bubble-headed fucks, and while you are thinking about it, sort out our health system so that panicking parents dont need to pull strokes, barter limbs or resort to menaces with firearms to get their children looked after.

Friends. Im not joking. I have not slept in days (or is it nights?)
I am already crawling the walls with worry about Samiam.
These last few days have expanded my lexicon of brick-shitting words.

The scariest being the C-word.

Just last night got the word- it is indeed what the Doctor ordered.
It still means years of a pain management plan, and physiotherapy, and, worst case scenario, surgery for my beautiful Princess.

But, bad news is good news- its not worse with a Capital C.

But ya know what?

We are going to fucking LAUGH our way through it.

Ha.
Fucking.
Ha.
(Tee Hee....)