The wee lad’s sick.
We’ve had so many visits to the doctor with this boy in the last eighteen months that he’s qualified for a High Use Health Card. I kid you not. Signed the paperwork at last week’s appointment. The list of visit dates didn’t even fit into the space provided, which is saying something given the form is designed for people who meet the high use criteria, but go figure. I shouldn’t really have been surprised at his eligibility given that on that same day the receptionist, two nurses and one of the doctors all greeted him by name while we were seated in the waiting area.
Today it wasn’t our usual doctor and I was a prepared for a bit of a fight about whether or not the lad should get antibiotics. I’ve learned that it’s best to go in a bit stroppy. Maybe stroppy is the wrong word. Assertive? Confident? Prepared for a scrap? Anyway, it’s not something that I’m particularly good at when it comes to dealing with doctors. I’ve had to work on my stroppiness.
I should mention at this point that I don’t think doctors should be throwing antibiotics at every sniffle or rash that comes their way. I know they don’t work for viruses. I know that lots of things can and do go away without using antibiotics if you let them run their course. I know that overuse of antibiotics leads to resistant bacteria. I’ve got it.
Here’s what else I know. We’ve had two nights of rubbish sleep. We’ve had high temps. We’ve had a dip in appetite. (If you know my son, you know just how significant this last is). In my world, those three together mean only one thing, ear infection. We’re on Day Three so they’ll only be pink, not scarlet and pulsating like they get by Day Five, but enough to seriously bother him. I am, you might say, an expert on my son’s ears.
So, when I took the lad to the doctor this morning, (Day Three and pink) I’m not sure that she was expecting me to arrive with a full diagnosis and treatment recommendation, but that’s what she got. Slightly stroppy, a bit pushy perhaps, but I’m damned if I’m going to end up at the After Hours for a good stretch of my weekend when we end up at scarlet and pulsating on Day Five. It’s not an if. It’s what happens. Every time.
I really don’t like going to the After Hours clinic. Even worse, if it’s the middle of the night, the A and E. People there are really unwell. Sometimes they have injuries. Proper ones. Ones that bleed. Or make parts of their body twist in grotesque and unnatural ways. I don’t cope well with any of that. At all. So with that, and the fact that if we end up there the wee lad is basically suffering the dual torture of earache and exhaustion, it’s not somewhere I want to include as part of my weekend agenda.
I was a woman on a mission today and was in and out of that office in the space of about five minutes. That’s got to be a record of some sort, surely?
Sometimes it pays to be a bit stroppy.