Different child, more or less the same routine. I took Henry to the GP yesterday morning, because his cough seemed to be getting worse, and she listened to his chest, reckoned it sounded worse than she was expecting, considering how well he seemed, and thought that he might need a steroid treatment. “He’s only 22 weeks old, though,” she said, “And I think I’d rather a paediatrician made that decision. Don’t hate me. I want you to take him to Alder Hey.”
So, I did a lightning readjustment of my day, threw Daisy at my friend, Shu for the afternoon, and took him to the hospital.
They prodded and poked, and said he had a bit of a wheeze, but they weren’t sure what it was – either “Virally Induced Wheezing”, which is what they call it when they don’t want the word asthma hanging around the neck of a child like a millstone, or bronchialitis. The difference, apparently, is that bronchialitis is a viral chest infection, whereas the other is triggered by a head cold.
Since he’s feeding OK, and his oxygen levels were reasonable, they said there was no need to admit him (which I never expected them to do, but you can never be sure how it’s going to end, when you go to A&E, can you?), but gave him My First Ventolin Inhaler to take home. And actually, that seems to have helped, since the only time he seemed to struggle in the night, was when he was about three hours overdue on the dose (which means he didn’t wake up between 11pm and 5am, which is pretty good on recent performance).
I was at the hospital for around three and a half hours, and I have to say, it’s no fun. Especially being there by myself, having the occasional panic in case he turns out to be really ill, and no one to tell me not to be silly. On the flip side, I saw a lot of people who have it a lot worse than we do.