So, the call came.
The one I dread.
The one where you send your child to school telling them to; ‘Buck up, old bean. Where’s your Dunkirk spirit?’ etc, only to find they have life threatening injuries that you pooh poohed as malingering and nothing half a sachet of Calpol and a thick ear won’t cure.
And, as also dreaded, I was half way across the county at the point the call came through to say that Oscar was very hot and not at all well and it was probably a good idea for me to bring him home.
I don’t know about you, but knowing you have sent your child to school when they are actually quite poorly makes you feel a bit like you’ve ritually slaughtered a kitten in the middle of the playground at kicking out time.
Luckily granny and granddad were able to do the honours and scoop him up in the grandparental bosom until I could get back.
I called the doctor’s surgery. No appointments available but the Doctor could ring me at the end of surgery.
I hate this too. You have the dilemma. Do you wait, for what could be hours to speak to the Dr? Or do you throw caution to the winds, stick blue nee nahs on the top of your car and go haring off to Accident and Emergency just in case of meningitis/beri beri/ebola etc?
If you leave it to speak to the Dr, and he says; ‘Oh my God woman, that’s a clear cut case of dengue fever, what are you fannying about with phone calls for? Get him to a hospital STAT you bad, bad parent.’ That would be bad.
On the other hand, if you break every traffic law, park sideways up a hairpin bend and gallop to A&E, spend three hours fending off a drunk tramp with a crutch someone who’s just died has left behind, and feed your healthy children the entire contents of an NHS vending machine just so an overworked, harassed Dr. can tell you that it’s probably viral and to go home and make sure he gets plenty of liquids, that’s also bad.
What to do?
And Tilly was in the wilds of the city somewhere on one of her first solo adventures with phone and bus pass and friends from school, and I was already a bit panic stricken and trying to think happy thoughts.
In the end I went for the waiting for the Dr. to call, option, dosed the boy with Calpol to lower his temp, kept his roots wet with plenty of liquids and decided to cook the tea which would give me something to do with my hands and stop me wringing them off the ends of my wrists.
By the time the Dr. rang, Oscar was much less hot and had demolished two helpings of tea, plus fruit, plus pudding. He was still hectic and coughing like a demon but I was much less concerned. Appetite is an excellent indicator in the illness stakes.
The Dr. thinks it is either an extension of this horrible thing he has had for a fortnight which is just refusing to give up the ghost, or something else that has crept in while his immune system is low.
I am of the opinion it is probably the latter option, as his cough is now interestingly squelchy and he sounds like he might be full of snot. Mmmm. I shall take him to the doctor today to make sure he is healthily full of snot and not in need of antibiotics.
And Tilly managed to get home from her thing in one piece, despite coming home on the wrong bus, ending up in the wrong place and having to walk half a mile in the pouring rain.
Which is pretty standard for Tilly to be honest.