A new cast

Update on the broken arm:

With his arm freshly cast, I was to get a certificate from the pediatric outpatient clinic to allow Marcus to fly to Germany for Christmas. A quick call to the clinic, and I could come by and pick one up the afternoon before our departure. Ah, but you and I know that things cannot go as planned. That would be Too Easy.

When the phone rang, I picked up, and my favorite bone-setter, Conor, told me we would have to split the cast to be able to fly. Could we come in and do that the self-same afternoon? Of course we could. Thirty minutes' drive for thirty seconds with a cast saw and the deed was done.

On doctor's orders, our first task on landing in Germany was to get Marcus to an outpatient clinic to get a new cast, as we had had to split his fresh cast for flying. It turns out that cutting it open was an excellent idea, as his arm did swell during the flight, and we did end up loosening it, and rewrapping it--in the parking garage at the supermarket.

My mother-in-law had called ahead to the 14 Nothelfer clinic, which means 14 emergency helpers, which we think is a funny name for a clinic, but what do we know? At any rate, we found our way to the outpatient clinic, where we were told to come back in an hour as the doctor was in surgery. We headed into town, and bummed around the Christmas market, and then headed back.

The doctor, a fast-talking young woman ( you know you're getting older when the doctors are younger than you), asked if we had the doctor's report form Dublin: we did, and I handed the CD to her. She laughed and handed it back to me--we have no computers here, she says. She then looks at the cast, and shakes her head--we don’t make these anymore, they're old-fashioned. She orders up an x-ray, which turns out to be a real x-ray machine, not fluouroscopy (digital, no computer). As we wait for the x-ray technician, we hear a noise. Yup, she's typing up a form on an IBM Selectric. If you don’t know what that is, you're probably too young to be reading this.

The film we walked back down the hall to the doc had an uncanny resemblance to the first picture of his broken arm. She said essentially the same thing as the Irish doctor, but with less Latin, and then looked at the cast again. No, she says, this is plenty stable, she doesn't recommend doing anything more to it. Come back in a week, says she.

We scratched our heads, not sure what to make of it all. I am reminded of my freshman Western Civ prof, spouting, "what is modernity?" Since it was a long weekend, we couldn't do anything about it (or anything else) so we just sat tight. We briefly considered heading to the hardware store and buying a few strips of fiberglass and doing the deed ourselves (watching Alfred try to talk me out of it had a certain entertainment quality). But by Monday, Marcus was hurting mush less, and a call to the old family doctor put our worries to rest.

We can't wait to see what the Irish doctor says when we return with the same cast as last year...

Obstacle course

We realized early on that living in Ireland would make it a relatively simple thing to jet off to see the in-laws for Christmas. Book the flights, reserve a car and a bed on the other end, figure out how to get to the airport. Easy-peasy. And yet, and yet…

Obstacles keep popping up. First, it was the whole visa application. Part of the relocation package from Microsoft was assistance in procuring a long stay visa for me. It certainly sounded useful, a whole lawyer's office taking care of all that bureaucracy. And yet…

The whole European visa section of the Irish Immigration department is in a muddle, as the European courts made a landmark decision pertaining to non-EU spouses (that's me) this summer. Previously denied residency in Ireland unless they (me) were already residing in an EU country, the ruling opened it up. Instant backlog in the visa section, and I just happened along at the right or wrong moment. They gave me a three month visa to complete my application, but since I was traveling in between, I was concerned they would hold my passport, making said travel impossible. No problem, says the lawyer: we'll make certified copies so you'll never be without it. So that's just what I did. And yet…

The lawyers dragged their feet, and dragged their feet, and finally got around to sending the application two weeks ago. A week later, a registered letter arrives (the postman cheerfully says, "I'm sure it's the lottery!") from a bureaucrat who shall remain nameless, requesting a stack of original documents (including letters from the boys' schools that I somehow needed to procure this instant), mailed within 10 days.

We take stock: It's Friday afternoon. Too late to mail it and expect it mailed back before we leave the following Saturday. What's more, I'm due to renew my soon-to-expire registration with the Garda the following Thursday evening, the only day the GNIB fellow in Baltinglass works. Clearly, we need to go to Burg Quay, the hellhole of Irish Immigration, in person.

We have the weekend to steel ourselves (a trip over the hill to Glendalough is perfect--it's really close, still lovely, and we easily find the woolen mill and take care of a present for my mother-in-law that should please her). We plan to drop Danny at Natasha's at the crack of dawn, drop Marcus at school in Dublin, park the car at Microsoft, and take the Luas up to downtown (there's no way we can expect to park there during the Christmas season). The Immigration office opens at 9 am, we aim for 8:30. It's a good plan. And yet…

We forget the axiom that if you do something different to your morning routine, you should add at least 15 minutes. A later start than we would like, the roads are a bit icier than we would like, and so on. We arrive at Burg Quay a bit before nine. There are no lines outside, simply because they opened at 8:30! We finally find the window for us, fooled because it had no line whatsoever (there are 50 people waiting in another line for a number). The fellow behind the glass cheerfully instructs us to drop the documents in the box, and says we'll get them back in two days. When pressed, he says he can't guarantee their return that quickly.

Alfred gives him a Paddington-like hard stare, and the fellow takes our stack of papers and disappears, presumably upstairs, for 20 minutes. He returns, papers randomly shuffled, and tells us we're sorted. We're pleasantly surprised at how easy this was, and buy ourselves a congratulatory hot chocolate at Butler's, and I hope on the bus back to Blessington. Plenty of time to get ready for our trip. And yet…

It seems that every class in spitting distance of Dublin spends an hour or two at the RDS skating rink in the weeks leading up to Christmas, coming away with a free bottle of diet 7up and a fuzzy green Santa hat. Danny brought his home a couple of weeks ago (yes, we chucked the soda); all three eighth grades from Marcus' school were up this Tuesday.

In one of those parenting moments where everything seemed to fall into place, Alfred was to pick up Marcus directly from the RDS skating rink in Dublin at five in the evening, and head down to a communal supper with our neighbors in Baltyboys. There was just no other evening between now and our departure for Germany, so Tuesday it was, even if Alfred and Marcus might be a bit late. And yet...

Alfred has always been a creative parker, but as he gets older, he's more nervous about it. So, parked illegally in front of the skating rink for fifteen minutes, he was shifting from ticked off to actually worried when Marcus failed to appear and didn't pick up his phone. He did the only logical thing, which was to call me so I could be worried too. My mind did the whole worst-case scenario well-known to every mother. I reached Marcus in the first aid room of the skating rink, and his first words were, "Hi Mom, I think I broke my wrist."

Dinner was later than late, though delicious and thoroughly enjoyable (chicken pot pie, parsnip and turnip puree, lemon tart and pumpkin pie for dessert). Conversation was punctuated by both American families speculating how the urgent medical system might work in Ireland. In the end, we called an Irish friend, who told us to go directly up to Tallaght to the A&E (Accident and Emergency) there. And yet…

A quick look online revealed that the Tallaght hospital has one of the worst waiting times in the country, with a good 30% of arrivals waiting over 24 hours to be seen. We decided to seek advice closer to home and looked online to find the closest GP. Yes, there are three doctors in Blessington. Two share an office and were quick to respond. Could we be there in 15 minutes? I said yes, dropped Danny at the neighbors (are you noticing a pattern?) to hitch a ride to school, and raced into town. Well, tried to race, but the roads were a bit icy, so we were ten minutes late.

The kindly doctor looked at it, said what we already knew ("we should take a x-ray") and wrote a magic letter. His fee was €50, but the letter meant we would save the €100 entry fee to the A&E, plus we would move to the front of the line. What's more, he explained, you should go to the pediatric A&E, where there is little or no wait.

We were incredibly fortunate (or we are using a huge amount of karma) to be in and out in just over an hour, with an x-ray (fractured left radius), a temporary plaster cast (red), and an appointment to get a full cast the next day. And yet…


The doctor in the pediatric fracture clinic looks at the x-ray (come to think of it, is this the first doc to look at his x-ray?), says it's borderline for surgery--but if we do a molded cast we can avoid resetting the bone. I ask about flying in two days, since the nurse had mentioned a split cast for flying. Oh, says he, if we do that, we'll have to perform surgery. Molded cast it is (Marcus chose white, the better to show the autographs). As he molds the cast onto a brave Marcus' wrist (hey, broken bones hurt), the tech mentions that we should check with the airline to see what they require.

The Ryanair website reveals that we need a medical certificate. A call back to the clinic reveals that they leave for the day at 3. Call back tomorrow.

My appointment with the Garda in Baltinglass goes without a hitch: instead of a six-month visa pending approval of my application, the fellow, with whom I share a surname, stamps my passport for five years. I'm set! And yet...

With less than 24 hours before we are to depart, I place a call to the fracture clinic: they can generate a medical certificate, if we can pick it up before 5. A call to Alfred confirms he can get it on his way home. It's down to the wire, but we can see the finish line.