Cone

It was going really well.

My daughter’s 15 inch scar on her back from where she had her spinal surgery just a few weeks ago had healed up nicely.

That was until the other night, when I went out to play rounders (I’ll tell you another time about how cathartic smacking the hell out of a ball with a wooden bat is). My husband was on nights, so my mum had agreed to babysit for a couple of hours.

I asked the usual getting in through the front door question: “Were the kids good for you?”

She gave me a look. “Well, they were, but we’ve had a bit of an incident.”

The i-word is not usually a welcome one, and it proved true to form. My daughter had picked her scar. She’d got blood all over her nightie, all over the bedsheets, and had opened up some of the healed up areas of skin.

Mum handed me a small piece of wiry material. “She says its her stitch.” I examined the offending article. “Yep, that’s a stitch all right.”

A helpful voice piped up from my boy's bedroom. "Most importantly, Mum, she's picked the bottom part where it took longest to get better, Mum. Most importantly, you know. Most importantly." God, he loves it when she's in trouble.

I cleaned and patched up my girl and then had a bit of a rant at her. I felt bad afterwards - a tendency to skin-pick is a common problem with Prader-Willi Syndrome, and later I thought about that urge, and how itchy and tempting a big healing scar must be.

We booked in with the nurse at the GP’s surgery (who just signed her off the week before), and we’re back putting dressings on for a few days. 

I’ve cut my girl’s nails short. 

A friend has offered me two ‘cone of shame’ protective dog collars to put round my daughter’s hands. I almost considered accepting.

Song is Wilson Pickett - Ninety-Nine And A Half (Won't Do)