Tuesday, 2 November 2010

But which one was the REAL Dr Brown Bear?

We've been quite fortunate with Jamie's health thus far, but there inevitably comes a time as a parent when you have to take your sprog to casualty in something of a rush/mild panic.  And it tends to be at night.

Last night was our night.

According to Vanessa, Jamie hadn't been "himself" as yesterday afternoon wore on and, by the time I got home shortly after 6, he'd progressed from not being himself to being arguably someone else entirely.  Who was clearly quite sick.

He was burning up, he was crying out and he was beginning to smell like a blood relative of Champion the Wonder Horse (or such like - you get my point).

Being the one in our relationship who talks proper, it was Vanessa's job (she orders our takeaways for the same reason) to phone NHS Direct, who promptly told us to take our boy to the accident and emergency department of the Leeds General Infirmary.

In an attempt to make our trip sound like an adventure, I told Jamie he was off to visit Dr Brown Bear from Peppa Pig.  And it did cheer him up.

However, some six hours later - at around 2am - the novelty had long since worn off as "Dr Brown Bear" number four or number five, I'm not sure which (but he was a jolly German and he answered to the name of Claus), prodded him for the umpteenth time before finally sending him home with an inhaler, a bottle of anti-biotics and a blotchy face.

Needless to say it was a huge relief to be told that, whilst he was obviously poorly, there was nothing too much to worry about.

I know it's a cliche, but you - or I, certainly - do sometimes take the old health thing for granted, which is wrong.  And sadly, there were a few parents there last night who seemed to have a lot more to be concerned about than us.  So much so, that I felt a little guilty as we departed.  Hopefully they all went home happy in the end.

And as for the procession of Dr Brown Bears and assorted nurses, they were predictably brilliant. 

I now look forward to renewing acquaintances with their equally professional colleagues along the corridor in the maternity unit in around seven weeks from now. 

Bloody hell.

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