The best excuse I have for not blogging recently involves Jesse, a climbing frame, A&E and an orthopaedic surgeon.

Just over two weeks ago, Jess took a tumble in the playground. School hadn’t even started, he was playing with a friend while Mr. LA chatted to a fellow parent. Jesse hesitated to jump from the rope bridge, but his buddy didn’t, dragging him awkwardly to the ground below. I’m told he cried loudly, but after he calmed down, he was happy enough to go into class. Mr. LA explained what had happened to his teacher and headed home, albeit with that funny feeling you get as a parent when you know something isn’t quite right.

Sure enough, the school phoned within the hour to say the colour had drained from Jesse’s face and he didn’t seem to be coping very well. We called a taxi and the boys headed to the hospital while I put in an appearance at Isabel’s sports day. I wanted to split myself in two. I felt I should be with Jesse, but I couldn’t bear to think of Izzy arriving on the playing field to find we were a no show. I stuck it out for a few races, but once I’d received the text confirming Jesse had broken his elbow, I knew I needed to leave.

If you’ve been reading a while, you’ll know I’m not a huge fan of hospitals. I wish I could explain how they make me feel, or describe the way panic builds in my chest whenever I set foot inside one, but it’s hard to type through the tears that fall when I start to think about it too much. I’ve always believed that to be inside one is my worst nightmare, but in fact sitting in traffic a mile away while someone I love was in one was much worse. It’s the only time I hate my imagination, when it churns up memories I’ve done a good job of burying somewhere in the depths of my mind.

So I rode the bus into town, biting my lip to keep my emotions in check. I did a good job too, until I couldn’t find the entrance to the children’s hospital and my heart started thumping and I felt as if my head was going to explode. Then I saw Jesse, his arm encased in a creamy white cast worn close to his chest in a sling. He was fine, flashing me a huge smile as I stepped through the automatic doors, but I burst into tears anyway.

The next few days passed in a sleep deprived blur. Jess was in a lot of pain and his cast was cumbersome and uncomfortable. A follow-up X-ray revealed he had dislocated a bone, so we prepared for surgery a few days later. We spent Friday afternoon on the ward, but were bumped from the list and told to come back the following morning. Jesse was finally in theatre early on Saturday.

There had been thunderstorms overnight, but blue s kies were just beginning to peep through as they wheeled him downstairs. I held his hand as they put him to sleep. It was surreal watching him drift off so quickly. They hurried me out afterwards, not in a horrible way, they were just being efficient.

I had a cry in the corridor. I get flashbacks you see, just like in the movies. These horrible images of my dad race through my mind and I have to work really hard to push them back to wherever it is they came from. Then I cried because I felt guilty for thinking about anything other than Jesse. I tried to explain why I was crying to the nurse, but I’m sure I made no sense between huge sobs and deep breaths.

We all had hot chocolates in Costa while we waited for the call to say he was in recovery. The surgery went well and we were home later that day. Jesse has taken it all in his stride, proving he is both ambidextrous and full of determination. With a bit of luck the cast will be off within the next few weeks and this whole thing will just be one of those stories we tell.

‘I remember when you were 5 years old,’ we’ll say to our son in years to come, ‘you fell off the climbing frame at school, do you remember? You broke your elbow and you were so very brave.’

Love Audrey xxx

PS. Bristol and broken bones seem to go together. Remember this?