We were snuggled on the sofa for our Friday night movie fest, when I realized that I wasn’t hot because we needed to open a window, I was hot because I was seated next to a hot potato.
She sniffled. And coughed. And said her throat hurt.
Temperature taken, she’s got a bug.
I suspect she’ll be mostly better by tomorrow. She’s not a kid to hold on to an illness long, and she was much more concerned about her sore toe than anything else.
I remember the first time she got sick. She went for big drama with that one. We’d been home only a handful of weeks–2 or 3, when she woke up and yelled, “hot.” She only had a couple dozen English words, but hot was one of them.
She was hot. 105.2.
I called the doctor and he called the hospital and off we went. Funny thing, when you bring in an adorable child with a 105.2 temperature who had just emigrated from Africa, people tend to move fast for you. No waiting in the waiting room on this one.
We stayed up all night long. She so loved all the attention. Everyone and their brother came in to see her, hoping, I imagine, for some exotic illness to break up the tedium of late night broken arms and asthma attacks. They summoned an Ethiopian xray technician who spoke to her in Amharic and scared her to death. I guess it was just so out of context for her. She watched movie after movie, while they drew blood and xrayed her chest. They tried for hours to get a urine sample but she adamantly refused that–screaming at the top of her little lungs. They’d get her temp down and then it’d spring back up again. They couldn’t figure it out.
Finally, we were sent home at 5 a.m. with a prescription for an antibiotic and a diagnosis of “fever of unknown origin.”
She fell asleep in the car ride home and I carried her into the apartment, balancing her on one hip while I opened the doors. I snuggled her back into her bed and she woke up for a minute, her tiny hands reaching for my neck.
“Mommy,” she said, half asleep.
“Baby,” said I, and when I woke up at 10, the lights were on and I was curled on the floor beside her bed, one arm, gripping the top of the bed.
I had a crick in my neck for a week.