I made a promise to myself last night that were the boys (or myself) to get any worse in any way this morning, we would head to the doctor’s to figure out what was wrong with us.
And so when I woke at 8:45am, after another generous sleep in provided by Pal taking a second day of sick leave, I did a visual and mental stocktake of both myself and the boys.
Oscar’s rash had worsened.
Fraser had come out in enough spots to warrant a rash rather than an oddly placed pimple.
And I still had a razor sharp throat, a newfound appreciation for hydration and panadol and itchy feet and hands.
Off the the Doctor’s Clinic we’ll go.
No. Stop. Do not pass go and do not collect $200. There is no room at the inn at the clinic.
Go to the barn instead.
And so it was I found myself in the Emergency Department of our small regional hospital feeling very stupid telling the nurse about some low grade temps, lethargy and a rash.
When her eyebrows raised that tiny millimeter in a maneuver that I’m sure all nurses are taught in their very first placements, I pointed out we tried the local medical clinic and were told they were booked out.
She knew. She’d been notified at 9am.
The raised eyebrow must be ingrained after so many years experience.
We were shuffled into triage, the boys were assessed and weighed. The nurse tickled and distracted to get blood pressures and oxygen sats.
She has obviously done this before.
No one was immediately dying so we were shuffled to the consult room next door.
“Won’t be long.”
Three words every mother in any Emergency Department of any hospital knows to take with a shovel load of salt.
Lo and behold, within an hour the doctor arrived.
The Two were disrobed.
“Oh.” said the doctor.
Also an ingrained response taught during medical training.
The “oh” that implies nothing and everything at once.
“It’s obviously viral.”
Yes. Obviously. To a doctor.
“It looks like the early stages of Chicken Pox…”
Um, what?? Are you kidding me? How the hell would they get that??
I look alarmed.
The doctor points to Roo: ” She’ll be next.” Very matter of fact.
“Actually, she had a temperature and was quite ratty with a sore throat on Thursday.”
The doctor nods.
“I think she gave it to them. She’s been immunised and they haven’t?”
“They’re booked in for theirs next week.”
The doctor nods again.
“I think it’s Chicken Pox, but it’s a bit early to tell. When the sores turn to blisters you’ll know for sure.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. You got lots of Panadol at home?”
“We’re headed to the chemist after this.”
“You’ll need lots.”
The doctor nods again.
“OK, so is there any point at which I need to bring them back? Like how do I know it’s gotten bad?”
“Oh, you need to watch Him [nods at Oscar] for pneumonia. Bring back for that.”
Well, yes. I probably would bring back for that. What a relief.
So, it would seem the immunisation schedule is not merely another deadline mothers are given just to keep us on our toes.
Roo, fully immunised, got a sore throat and a low grade temperature for a day. Her behaviour was foul and made me cry.
I had Chicken Pox three times as a kid and have been immunised since. I’ve got a sore throat, sore ears and have been practically
unable to think and stand for two days. and now my feet are itchy.
The Twins, whose MMR vaccine I have delayed for two months due to Oscar having a bad local reaction to the 12 month immunisations and wanting it to clear up first, have what looks to be Chicken Pox.
We’re going on Day Three of clingy, sooky, whingy, lethargic, sleep deprived crankiness.
With added spots.
I think Oscar would have preferred another weird blister on his arm, causing no discomfort.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
If you need us, we’ll be at our house.
BYO face mask.