Another trip to the doctor’s with the coughing boy reduces us both to the status of children
After a brief interlude during a trip back to Ireland, the boy’s sickness has returned with a vengeance. We were called by the childminder to come and pick him up, because he’d been sick again. It was worse this time, and our sense of distress was enhanced by the indignity of false hope, since our trip home had proved mostly painless. He now had a high temperature and a cough that could strip paint. The minor hardship we’d experienced the week before appeared to have been little more than an hors d’oeuvre.
My natural refuge in any time of stress is the internet – eg five minutes ago when I couldn’t spell ‘hors d’oeuvre’ and Googled ‘hrouresdearveses’ – but this seemed like a better candidate for good old-fashioned, face-to-face doctoring. Besides, my wife and I are incapable of searching my son’s symptoms without concluding he has coronavirus, so we thought it best that a professional decide.
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