I’m sorry, you want her to pee in what?

Keira was really sick for a while.

Not the kind of sick that kids tell you they are when they don’t want to go to school.

I’m talking about the kind of sick that is quite worrying. 

I knew she wasn’t well when she refused all food.  She even refused dry bread which is a first in her 3½ years on this planet.

But I knew she was really ill when her temperature hit 39.9°c.  It was really quite frightening.

I managed to get an emergency appointment with her doctor.  Who on this occasion was based the other side of town. 

I arrive at 5:08pm

Me: Hi – I’ve got an appointment with the Doctor at ten-past-five.  It’s for Keira.

The Receptionist (which on this occasion is code for an overworked, underpaid and humorless bint) barely acknowledged my existence. 

Receptionist: The Doctor is running a bit late.  Take a seat and I’ll book you in.

I look around to see two old boys sat in the corner.  Hardly jam packed.

Me: Do you know how behind he is?

Receptionist: I didn’t say he was behind, I said he was running a bit late…..

Er… manners wouldn’t go amiss – miserable cow.

Me: Is there a difference then?

Keira decided to bury her head at this point in my leg and whinge incessantly that she wants a cuddle.

Receptionist: About ten minutes

Me: OH, OK, thats do-able.  Thank you very much.

Receptionist two sticks her head round from her computer to chuck in her estimate of the delay

Receptionist Two: Sorry, madam, but surgery is running 40 minutes behind.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Keira and I take a seat by the door showing the way to the toilet.  It wasn’t completely impossible that she’d vomit – best to be prepared.

Five minutes.  Ten minutes.  15 minutes went by and my patience started to wear very thin. 

Keira cried and whinged the entire time.  The two gents who occupied the far seats just looked at me, clearly wishing I was somewhere else.

Haven’t you ever heard a child whine before – she’s ill you miserable tossers.  Deal with it!

Twenty minutes passed and I’d lost count of the number of times Keira got up and then sat back down in succession because for some reason: her feet hurt.

I see the surgery door open, the doctor moves towards the waiting room…

Pllllleeeeeeease call us next, please…….

Doctor: Keira please

YEEE-HAAA!

We walk through the door and take a seat in the chair.

Whilst I explain what’s been going on the last couple of days, Keira decides that this is the perfect time for a screaming hissy fit! 

I don’t want that doctor.  I don’t like him.  Muuuummmmmyyyyyy I want to gooo home!

Throw in some good old fashioned tears, waving of the arms and down right disregard for anything he said or did and you’ve got an Oscar winning tantrum.  Right there. 

I pursed my lips so they’re as tight as a cats arse and glared at her to behave….

She sat still and opted instead to ignore everything he said.  And I do mean everything.

He took her temperature, listened to her heartbeat, felt to see if her glands were up.  No sign of what was wrong. 

He broke the silence first:

Doctor: Do you think Keira needs the toilet?

Me: Er…

Doctor: I need a sample

Me: Sample of what?

Doctor: Wee

Idiot.  Of course he meant wee.  What else would he have meant?  Skin sample?  Blood!?  You Plank.

Me: Well I can take her to try for one.

The doctor fumbles about in some make shift draw and hands me the worlds smallest sample pot. 

Me: Er…. you want her to pee in this?

Doctor: Yep.

Me: OK, we’ll give it a go

Off we trudge to the toilet.  The cubicle has got just about enough room to get it, stand and not much more.  I explain to Keira what’s needed and ask her to help me. 

Fat bloody chance.

She clamped her legs shut, clenched her muscles and refused to give me a sample. 

Instead I had to practically force her knees apart, whip the pot underneath her before she finished going and get what I could. 

Not as successful as I’d hoped.  I was covered in wee and thoroughly pissed off (pardon the pun).

Back in the surgery I prayed she’d have a urine infection to make the process worth it.

Nope.  Clear.

Doctor diagnoses tonsilitis and gives me a suitable prescription for antibiotics.

On the way out I thank the less than helpful staff, give a final glare at the miserable sods sat in the corner and make my way to the car.  Exhausted and praying for an early night.

I look at my daughter who insisted on being carried out. 

She was asleep leaving only me traumatised by the entire event!

I don’t ‘do’ ill..

I think it’s fair to say that I am not a good patient.

In fact I’d go as far to say as I’m a bloody awful one.

No really.  I’m awful.

In my capacity as Super Mum (a title bestowed upon me by Keira) I can handle all manner of voluntary and involuntary bodily functions: sneezes, sick, poo (runny and otherwise), dribble.  You name it, I can handle it.

Except when it’s mine.

I hate being ill more than I hate doing the ironing.  Being ill makes me feel crap.  Yet, I gave birth!  By some miracle, I managed 18 hours of labour to give birth without so much as a sniff of gas and air but I’m completely wiped out by the flu.

In my defence I did have that flu.  The dreaded H1N1.  The Swine kind.

J’s bloody fault.  He got it and decided to breath on me and pass his germs over share!  The only person in the house left to infect was Keira so I did the only sensible thing and pack her off to Nanny’s for a couple of days.

Good job too because I went from Super Mum  to Crap Mum in the space of about 9 hours.  I felt rotten.

The nice people in our Government decided to run pandemic flu line which said that I needed to check my symptoms against their list of recognised ones.  I wondered how I’d faired:

• Unusual Tiredness

I slept for 11 hours, got up and went back to bed for another 4!  Check.

• Headache

There must be an ultra small midget tormenting me with hot pokers behind my eyes.  That’s how it felt. Check.

• Runny Nose

I’ve just opened toilet roll number 2.  Check

• High temperature

Does 38.6 degrees count?  Check.

• Muscle aches?

I feel like I’ve been thrown out of a moving car.  That’s a check.

• Loss of appetite

Food disgusts me.

• Cough?

Yep, that’s my lung right there on the carpet.  Check

• Diarrhoea or vomiting

Christ, I have NOTHING LEFT TO GIVE YOU !

Learn to recognise the symptons?  You’re kidding right?

SCREW YOU – I’M LIVING THEM IN MY OWN SPECIAL HELL ON EARTH!