Rose has a bone scan booked at Kings - we tell her it's just to check out the sore shoulder and that she can go to Felix's sports day while the radioactive medicine does its stuff between scans. She takes it all so in her stride - she cannot remember now life before anaesthetising cream, canulas in her veins, endless different radiographers facilitating endless different scans. She is eight and so they start to tell her exactly what is going to happen - it's ok she says. I know.
The bone scan holds no fears but she is in pain and I can't bear it. I bleep her consultant and get her written up for stronger drugs but down in the hospital pharmacy they make a mistake and give codeine in tablet form not liquid. It's no one's fault but I shout at the poor pharmacist and Rose is a bit surprised.
We go to Dulwich College where 200 lovely 12 year old boys are running around and jumping over things on a very hot day - they all look so well and healthy and fabulous and they've all got all their lives in front of them. We look out for our very own fabulous 12 year old and I have to forcibly stop myself from throwing myself on top of him for a hug. A couple of people know Rose is coming and going from the hospital but I don't want to talk about it. I just want to be with my friends for an hour watching my son like every other mother there. If I stay there on my corner of an English playing field on a beautiful June day perhaps it will all just go away.
