STOLEN BY BITACLE Scarlet Fever

STOLEN BY BITACLE

Amazing to me to realise Scarlet Fever was still around. I thought the doctor was joking. But doctors never joke around small boys on IV fluids, so I should have realised straight away she was serious.





So we spent the rest of the weekend in hospital, where the Gorgeous Boy - once diagnosed - was put onto penicillin toot-sweet. If only it had been around for all those other little children who needed the wonder drug, like dear little Beth March. And, um, many real people who didn't make me weep in childhood.

Scarlet Fever, it turns out, is a form of strep throat in colour. Only some people are susceptible to the special toxins that cause strep throat to turn into Scarlet Fever. It may have been this which led my boy's chart to be marked "TOXIC", or it may have been the number of times he vomited over beds, shoes (his own, mine, the doctor's), clothing (lost count) and sterile instruments.

Poor boy. It took them a while to work out what was wrong and he had to have a lumbar puncture to ensure it wasn't bacterial meningitis and suffer many other indignities like his mother diving between his legs to catch wee in a bottle. All very confusing, uncomfortable and undoubtedly pointless to his just-a-kid-brain.

In case you were wondering, Scarlet Fever really does make you turn red. All of you. The hospital now has a photographic record of the Gorgeous Boy's 'strawberry tongue' and a whole parade of doctors, nurses and med students trooped through his room for a look at something hitherto seen only in their text books.

On the upside he got to eat jelly for breakfast, play Nintendo in bed on the special space bubble in the kids' ward, sleep in a special room with Mummy on a bed next to him, and stick his tongue out at a lot of important people.

On the downside, medicine, needles, much dismay, and, as a result of sucking in shared coughs for 72 hours, Mummy is now sick in bed at home with - you guessed it - strep throat.

No strawberry tongue for me yet, and a good thing too because the same penicillin that saved the Gorgeous Boy would kill oh-so-allergic me, so fingers-crossed and thanks for all the well-wishing for my little superhero.

And did you notice in the comments on RSM #9 that a british version appears to be called 'bed, wed, dead'? How very polite. I think we must know more about Mad Muthas before this week is done.

And finally, finally, as I head back to hazy-drug sleep I do so with a tummy full of the blissfully wonderful My Float's bolognese sauce. A friend, indeed. And we haven't yet tucked into My Float's mother's fantastic spinach pie - but since I've tried it on other occasions and know it to be the best spinach/ricotta pie south of Athens, I'm saving it a day or so until my tastebuds stop being white!

mtc
Bec