IT'S FEBRUARY, but there is no sign of stress or anxiety about the Leaving Cert in our house. It's not that Darragh is well prepared. Anything but. He was offered revision courses at Christmas, but replied loftily that he would feel disloyal to the school if he joined one.

He is totally motivated when it comes to sport, though. Mens sane in corpore sano, he quotes, so despite this being "The Year" I have encouraged him to play matches with all the passion and vigour he can muster - in the hopes that his reluctance to study might be miraculously lifted, and he become one of these gifted all rounders. Dream on, says my real self.

What seems to happen is he constantly gets injured. Over the years I have learned to trot out terms like tendonitis, torn ligaments and pulled hamstrings as if I know what I am talking about in fact I have only done a very basic first aid course, and on occasions my bad judgment has led to long bouts of unnecessary convalescence.

So when is an emergency a real emergency?

Last Friday Darragh came home from his hurling match with a finger swollen to an enormous size. He had hit the ball with his hand with full force and immediately knew he was in trouble. Stalwart that he is, he and his Da got down to the remedies.

All Friday evening he sat with ice resting on the thumb and index finger. Homeopathic creams, which had been brought back from London, were rubbed in. The pain was acute, but he got through the night and in the morning decided it was much better and the swelling was going down.

We all set about our Saturday routines and didn't meet up until about 7 p.m. The incident had already receded in my memory, so I was taken aback to find him complaining yet again of pain.

Not knowing whether it was broken, sprained or dislocated, and not finding any further pointers in the medical books, we decided - albeit with reluctance - to take him to the local hospital.

Everybody must have been listening to the frequent radio ads about not using the facilities unless absolutely necessary at 10.30 p.m., when there is normally a hubbub of activity, all was quiet.

The finger was put in a sling and he was given painkillers, he returned the next day for an X ray; this showed nothing, so it was again strapped up and he was told to return three days later. The doctor then told him it was sprained. But the pain was still acute, so a private clinic specialising in sports injuries was found - and this time he was told his ligament was badly pulled.

He got stronger medication to take down the swelling and was asked when his next match was. The proverbial RICE - rest, ice, compression and elevation - was applied and a team mate was brought on the next visit so the doctor could be satisfied that the finger would be strapped up properly. He played the match and won.

A total of three weeks elapsed before Darragh could take a pen in hand to make even a feeble effort at note taking.

The reluctance to study is still there. All he can think about is the semi final; my panic is another injury. It's a long year.