On waiting…

Ivy’s sleep study went okay.

She was wired up and sent off to sleep, monitored by the machines and recorded on the camera.

At 5:30 am we were woken by an abrupt nurse with a stern face.

Vague questions about typical sleep patterns and snoring ensued as she pulled the wires from her skin.

No, it was not a typical night’s sleep.

Is it ever in the hospital?

The environment is so different from home, the biggest factor being that I don’t sleep in the same room as Ivy does, so when she wakes up distressed, she comes looking for me.

Also, with all the wires looped up behind her back, she had to find an alternate sleeping position to her usual.

So no, it was anything but typical.

At least she didn’t sleep through this time, at least she exhibited some of the restless behaviour we see at home.

I asked the nurse had there been anything unusual overnight.

“I, er, I can’t really say because the doctor will need to report back on things. I’m just the nurse”, she said.

“We are not going back to the specialist, unless there is something wrong”. I retorted

“I can’t say”, she repeated, “you’ll have to talk with the doctor”.

Just the nurse?

The nurses do all the hard work, they stay overnight and monitor the readouts and most of the nurses in this particular sleep unit have been there since its creation, almost twelve years ago.

I know that she knows exactly what went on.

So, does that mean that there was something but she didn’t want to say

or that she wasn’t listening to what I said about not having a follow up appointment?

Or, does it mean that she was just in a hurry to get us out of the unit and we will have to chase our equally aloof paediatrician for anything?

Never the less, no feedback was given and we were discharged to wait for Ivy’s next test for the day.

It was 6:30am

The cat scan was scheduled for 11am.

When you live in the country, you can’t just zip home and then go back in five minutes.

So we waited.

Three hours in the car because there was nothing open and then the final hour in the cafe area (even though Ivy was nil by mouth).

At 10:30 we made our way to the ‘diagnostic suite’.

The CT scan nurse came to see us, explained that Ivy would not be canulated for the contrast dye unless the doctor wanted to have a closer look at something on the scan.

Ivy was so good.

She had the first pass through and then the doctor came back in.

He had to canulate.

Another pass through with dye and Ivy was done and I asked,

“So, was there something there?”

to which the doctor replied;

“You’ll have to go back to your doctor for results”.


So here I sit with nothing.

Just ponderings of what might be happening.

I feel frustrated that we have to wait.

I hate it.

I understand that even though ours is considered a tertiary level facility, in truth it is still a country hospital.

There is no instant reporting, not enough doctors to go around, fax and email is not widely used, instead reports are mailed from the unit to the rooms that are barely 200 metres away.

It could be days before anybody knows anything.

There is no point in chasing anyone just yet but I will because I know that the old saying ‘no news is good news’ is moot when it comes to results.

Doctors just don’t get back to you.

Ivy was treated a knitted bear and some stickers for being so good.

The doctor and the nurses were amazed.


I was just a little sad.

It’s not normal for a three year old to be comfortable and calm in these situations.

It’s normal for a three year old to kick and scream and be frightened of big, loud, clunky machines

and normal for them not to be able to hold still.

Her little life has seen her have so many tests and exams that it is now just part of her psyche to put up with these things.

I took her down to the gift shop, for her to pick a treat, for holding very still.

She chose a $5 beaded necklace.

She has no idea how easy she makes things for everyone.

I would have given her the world, had she asked.


Originally posted at Three RIng Circus

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