When You Can’t Fix It

At the start of April, I found myself in a place I wasn’t prepared for - sitting beside my son as he moved through significant pain, a series of tests, and ultimately, a diagnosis that would take over the month.

It didn’t begin there. He had been complaining of an achy back for a while. Like most parents, we started with everything we could think of - heat packs, gels, baths, stretches, osteopath appointments.

Then one day, he couldn’t get out of bed. He couldn’t stand. We managed to get to urgent care and were told it was likely part of growing or due to strenuous activity.

But it didn’t ease up. If anything, it was getting worse. Something wasn’t right, and our GP agreed - this wasn’t normal. We were given a referral letter and booked in with a spinal consultant.

When Expectations Change

An MRI and blood tests revealed an infection around the spine.

The consultant initially planned a biopsy under sedation. The day after, another doctor told us it could be done quickly under local anaesthetic, so we went into the appointment expecting something relatively straightforward. It wasn’t.

What followed was far more painful and distressing than either of us had anticipated. He had to remain still while being examined and poked in an already highly sensitive area - the pain building up with each moment.

It became clear to the team that the infection had progressed more than expected, and sedation for a bone biopsy would be needed after all.

But before that could happen, I had to help calm an agitated, overwhelmed teenager enough to have a cannula inserted - reassuring him that he wouldn’t remember what was to come.

After the procedure, he was admitted onto the children’s ward We were told that due to the progression of the infection, antibiotics needed to start immediately - even before knowing the exact strain.

Which meant another cannula. Another wave of overwhelm. Tears. Pain.

The Body Remembers

What I didn’t expect was just how much this would affect me.

Watching him having cannulas inserted, I could feel my own body reacting - tensing, bracing. It caught me off guard, but I recognised it.

It brought me straight back to his birth - moments where medics struggled to find a site for a cannula, the repetition, the lack of control.

And alongside that, there was the helplessness. It lands differently when it’s your child. There was nothing I could do to take the pain and discomfort away.

Even with all the awareness I have, and with the work I do - my nervous system still responded. I had to work to stay present. To steady myself enough so that I could be there for him.

Finding Ways to Soothe

When everything feels overwhelming, the simplest tools often become the most important.

There was the physical comfort - sitting close, holding him, allowing him to cry.

And then there was distraction - giving his mind somewhere else to go.

We played small simple games:

• Name 5 things beginning with B that you can see or hear…

• 5 animals beginning with M

• Variations of the alphabet, categories - anything that gently engaged his thinking

When we focus attention like this, we shift activity away from the part of the brain that amplifies fear and pain, and engage the thinking, cognitive part instead. This helps regulate the nervous system, creating just enough space to get through the moment.

The Long Month

He was discharged the next day, which felt like a relief.

But that was only the beginning. For the next month, we made daily trips to the hospital for IV antibiotics - a three-hour round trip each time.

There were also more blood tests. More cannula changes. And the constant chasing of updates and treatment plans.

He also had to manage the physical discomfort of the cannula itself - though at times, that became a distraction from the pain in his back.

A small, unexpected upside: this all happened over Easter, and I don’t think we’re ever received so many chocolate eggs - he came home with an egg or two every day!

Our days revolved around treatment. Everything else was put on hold.

Where We Are Now

The infection has damaged a part of his spine. While he continues treatment, we have to minimise the risk of further trauma.

No heavy lifting. No contact sports. Even things like cycling suddenly carry risk - what if he falls off his bike?

And then there’s school. He has missed a lot, and is only just beginning to return to full time. Navigating a busy school environment brings its own challenges - crowded corridors, the rush between lessons, the risk of being knocked or jostled.

It requires constant, quiet vigilance.

He is now on oral antibiotics, which has freed up both time and his arm!

Gradually, he is moving more freely and is much brighter in himself. We’re not fully through it yet, but we’re no longer in the thick of the storm.

What This Has Shown Me

This experience has been a reminder of something I often speak about, but felt very directly:

Even when we have the tools, the understanding…

We are still human - we feel, we react, and we are affected, especially when it comes to the people we love.

And sometimes, the work isn’t about fixing anything.

It’s about staying, softening where we can, and allowing the experience to move through us rather than expecting ourselves to be untouched by it.