Doctor, doctor, give me the news
On Wednesday the Sparkette came home from school sporting an Ace bandage on her right wrist. She said that it had started hurting a little on Monday but had become more painful every day, and by midday on Wednesday she could no longer write without miserable pain. So she went to the nurse’s office, where the nurse agreed it looked pretty swollen and wrapped it for her.
On Thursday the Sparkette continued to complain about the increasing pain in her wrist, but after school began to add new complaints to the litany: sore throat, cough, sore chest. By evening she was sporting a low grade fever and experiencing chills in our already chilly unheated house.
We didn’t bother to send her to school today. Every complaint she had yesterday was only magnified today, but most worrisome to me was that the pain in her wrist was now spreading to the base of her thumb. Rest and ibuprofen weren’t helping at all. She was bleary-eyed and teary-eyed, lethargic and shivering.
And so, off to the base ER we went. I wouldn’t have bothered for the fever and its symptoms since those things usually just need to run their course, but I knew the wrist needed to be seen somewhere where there was access to radiology equipment.
We sat in the waiting room, bored out of our minds. No internet service, no magazines (which is fine, since they just transfer germs anyway), and the TV was set on something there was no use getting interested in. We both dug through our phones looking for games that didn’t require the internet. Apparently the Sparkette was also digging through random questions in her mind.
“If you could have an audience with the Queen, what would you do? What would you ask her?”
I thought a moment. “I guess I’d just ask her if she’d like for me to pray for her.”
I couldn’t think of anything else. After all, she’s not my Queen, and I don’t really need anything that her influence could provide. It seemed to me that I could potentially do more for her than she could do for me.
“True,” the Sparkette said. “That would be good.”
They called us back to triage and then to a treatment room where we had time to be bored some more. Then a grumpy old curmudgeon of a doc came in and wanted to know why we were there, and then complained that we weren’t telling him what he really wanted to know.
I refrained from pointing out that if you want specific information, it’s always nice to ask specific questions. I am pretty sure I deserve a cookie.
He wiggled the Sparkette’s wrist around, not noticing the faces she was making because it hurt. He said he’d give her a brace and told her to take ibuprofen and if it wasn’t better in a week to see her regular doc. He then looked in her ears and throat and said it just looked like typical red spots from strep. He said he’d give her some medicine and then he left.
I really didn’t miss him much when he was gone.
We ended up leaving with a wrist brace, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a Z-pack. No strep test, so here’s hoping we’re not playing mad scientist and creating new strains of super bugs here in the Sparky Petri Dish. The Sparkette begged for Chic-fila nuggets and fries on the way home. Since those should feel just great on a sore throat and since fried fast food is wonderfully healthy for a compromised immune system, I caved in and got her some. Just working on my Mother Of The Year award.
Am I the only one who feels like I need a bleach dip after leaving any medical facility?