Peace Out, Helmet Head!
It’s official, folks! The hubs and I took Boo Boo to the neurosurgeon on Friday and got the good word. Time to say buh-bye to the helmet! The good doctor took out his crazy head-measuring calipers, a little of this, a little of that, and voila — Boo Boo’s final measurements. I swear, if you saw these calipers, you’d duck in fear; but our little guy took it all like a champ. So here is the final number — four! Only four millimeters discrepancy from one side to the other. Fan-tabulous! Plagiocephaly no more! I couldn’t be happier with the results; doc even used the word symmetrical to describe the noggin. How ’bout them apples, eh? (By the way, the doc’s very first measurement back in June was eighteen. Eighteen! I trust your subtraction skills are up to par and you realize how very cool this is.)
I admit the whole helmet experience made me anxious at first. Would he look okay, feel okay, respond well to it? Yes, yes, and yes. Would I be able to stick to the twenty-three hour a day schedule for three whole months? Yes. Would the whole thing be worth it? As it turns out, yes. I honestly didn’t think I had it in me. I told myself I could hang in there for the sake of the boy, that getting the helmet would be the best decision for him in the long run. And it was.
I have to give a shout out to the folks at the Worcester Hanger office. They were awesome throughout the whole experience. Tim, Boo Boo’s orthotist, was the best. He gave Bubba excellent care and attention, always listened and responded to our concerns, and scheduled immediate appointments when issues arose. Can I get a Woot Woot?
So you may think this is a little odd, but I insist on keeping the helmet. When the hubs expressed his original thought that we’d get rid of it, I couldn’t do it. It’s found a place at the top of Boo Boo’s closet and it’ll stay there for a while until I find it a new home. I can’t get rid of it. It’s the smallest of reminders that the little guy, the hubs, and I hung in there. We dealt with the ignorant glances, the quick, uncomfortable looks away, the lady who rammed her shopping cart into a display at Target because she was staring at my boy’s head. (I admit, I stifled a laugh at that one…served her right.) Some thought he’d had surgery; one little boy asked if Bubba was normal. All of this raises more issues than I can address in one little blog post, but I add these comments here to emphasize that I’m proud. We did it; we’re done. Noggin boy’s noggin is all good.