It starts with a cough. A runny nose. A warm forehead.
My pulse rises. I wipe water from my eyes.
Will that be it? Are we headed back to the hospital? Will an ambulance be involved?
I make a call. We pack a bag.
How long has she been like this? Are you giving her any medicine? How has her eating been?
The barrage of questions I know are coming play through my head as we head toward the doctor’s office. I break a sweat, wondering if the low weight displayed on the scale will bring the words “failure to thrive” up again.
That’s the way it’s been. For almost three years. Living at the mercy of my daughter’s rushed trips to the doctor’s office.
A couple months ago, it was a minor ear infection that brought us back to him. “You’re going to have to get over this,” my doctor lowered his glasses; a sign that he was serious. “Kids get sick. They’re going to get sick. She is going to get sick.”
Somehow, that advice finally sunk in.
She coughed again the other day.
She ran a low fever.
I made the call.
We left the house.
It wasn’t until we were on our way home that I even realized: I hadn’t packed a bag.
The sick season has started, but it’s not going to bring us down.
The worst is over.