We’ve Been Better

 

I carted Harry and his new welt down the GP’s this afternoon, banged my head on his desk, tore my hair and wailed incoherencies about Can’t Get A Formal Diagnosis and Seriously I’m Not Making This Up He Really Does Have Significant Mobility Problems and What If Social Services Ask Questions and What If They Don’t Believe Me When I Say He Falls All The Time and Where’s His Fucking Brain Scan Got To; none of which he can help with, but he wrote stuff down and I felt a little better.

Just for shits and giggles, I reviewed the previous 12 months of Harry’s collision injuries. I couldn’t go back any further; I was too sad and frustrated. 

I should emphasize that, except where noted, these were all separately sustained; I have omitted photos of the sometimes-awful mouth and tongue sores he is depressingly prone to, possibly because he bites them during more minor impacts. Of which there are dozens a day.

 

What’s a mother to do, for crying out loud?

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