With the hollow laughing

[radegund]

So, you remember the bit where niallm and I were sick, yes? But Oisín wasn't?

Ha. Well, on the very last day of our (concurrent) sick leave, a Friday, I went to collect said Oyster from the crèche, and there was a notice up saying "OMG WTF we have a suspected case of STREP THROAT here are the symptoms blah blah". And they said that Oisín had been "a bit out of sorts" that afternoon...

*big drum sounds and 'cellos of DOOOOOOOOM*

Yep. He got it. Sickest he's ever been. Temperature of 39.3°C (which is 102.7°F) at the doctor's appointment - high enough to worry the doctor, because at around 40°C you have to start watching for the febrile convulsions... Didn't sleep for more than about an hour and a half at a time for maybe 48 hours. Was deeply, horribly unhappy most of the time he was awake for about three days. Needed to be in my arms for much of that time. May have been hallucinating, although obviously, it's impossible to tell. A seven-day course of antibiotics, plus rectally administered paracetamol to rein in the fever. Ugh. When the weekend was over we organised grandmothers in shifts (by which I mean they came around to mind him, not that they were dressed in archaic undergarments), and took yet more time off work to cover the gaps, and somehow made it through to the following Thursday, when the boy was deemed fit to go back to the creche.

And all was well.

And there was a weekend that was not entirely unbearable. (At least, I think there must have been. My short-term memory left the building some time ago. But yes! Of course! There was glitzfrau's dinner party! Where I met jane_the_23rd for the first time! That was lovely.)

Swennyway. We all set forth on the Monday morning with hope in our hearts. But those drums and 'cellos weren't finished with us, because when I arrived to collect Oisín on the Monday evening, there he was, "out of sorts" AGAIN. His temperature soared that night to 39.9°C, which was enough to have me tearfully paging through my parenting books at 3:00a.m., wondering whether we needed to go to a hospital. Again, we had the almost hourly waking, again the misery, the restlessness, the burning, burning skin, and in the morning the doctor diagnosed a urinary tract infection. He wrote me a sick note, furthermore, because he recognised that I would not be fit for work while I was getting that little sleep.

(A data point: apparently all of my doctor's other patients who are in paid employment and also have small children have someone to whom they can hand over a sick child at no notice. He wrote me the cert largely because he doesn't consider me to have an adequate support structure to deal with this sort of situation. A comment, I feel, on the nature of Irish working life.)

Different antibiotics. Lots of cuddling. Not as sick as the previous time. Back to normal on the last day covered by my cert, thank goodness. Happy enough to be delivered to the crèche on Friday morning. Deep sighs of relief all round.

I really, really hope that's it for a while. And in conclusion, I wish to state that I will hold a small, private celebration on the day that I deem my youngest child old enough to insert its own anal suppositories. That is all.

Comments

[glitzfrau.livejournal.com]

Oooh, honey. The poor, poor wee O., and hooray! for your doctor. (Also hooray! for grandmother coming permanently on-shift in the spring, no?)

Would love to see you today, if at all possible. If not, I'm thinking of you. xxx

[radegund.livejournal.com]

permanently on-shift

I somewhat hate the fact that we'll then slot so fucking neatly into the Standard Model, but on the other hand, AM I COMPLAINING ABOUT THE FREE CHILDCARE? I think not.