Different shades of sick

Dear Loinspawn,

You are finally going back to school and there’s no point in sugarcoating the truth – your mother is looking forward to finding the pieces of her mind she lost while taking care of you for the past three months.

Will she find her marbles? I sometimes look at her crying in the corner late at night and doubt it. But we can both exhale a little bit as you return to a very special breed of humans who are trained to deal with tiny people prone to screaming, shouting and shitting themselves.

Three months ago, we took you out of school. You were sick. Not just for a couple of days, but for months. That’s a lot of snot. But that’s what you get for sending your child to a cesspit of germs and disease. The school is cheap, but the doctor’s bills aren’t. Just one more point to add to the “things-we-should-have-really-considered-harder-before-creating-a-human” list.

Remember when you ate the Toilet Duck? You were right beside me while I was trying to find a song for us to dance to…and then you weren’t. It was ominously quiet. Partly because I hadn’t found a song, but mainly because you were busy eating a big blob of gel detergent from inside the toilet bowl.

I told your mother, your OCD-wash-her-hands-a-gazillion-times-a-day mother, who immediately stuck her finger in the toilet bowl. She put her finger in her mouth. She paused. Her eyes grew big. And then she said: “It fucking burns!”

God, I love your mother.

We rushed you to hospital, concerned that the detergent was now searing holes through your throat and into your stomach and that by the time we got to emergency room there would be nothing but a minty-fresh smelling crater in the car seat.

Luckily, you were okay and entertained everyone in the waiting room by playing hide-and-seek behind the nurses’ station. Everyone but the nurses.

Two nights later I knew we weren’t okay when your mother woke me up at 2 am looking like she had just gone down a slippery slide covered in puke. She told me it was bad. I agreed. And then I saw your cot…

So we were back in hospital. You were quarantined to your own room, lest you make the other little cretins sicker. You spent a lot of time sitting at the glass door waving to the little girl quarantined in the opposite room. It was sweet and sad…the waving, not the fact that you had contracted a nasty virus that was bent on covering the world with your insides.

Since then you’ve been plagued by one sickness after the other and have constantly been on anti-biotics.

Finally, we took you out of school…and suddenly, just like that, you weren’t ill anymore. No more sniffles, no more tissues, no more grumpy, uncomfortable, cranky, moaning, snotty, irritated you.

Until now. Fucking Murphy and his fucking stupid law.

Today was supposed to be your first day of school. Instead, you’re at the doctor. Last night you woke up screaming, pointing to your swollen penis. You have an infection, which is the kind of thing that will happen if you ferociously pull on your genitals like a stretchy toy.

So now you’re sick, you’re back on antibiotics, you’re miserable, and the worst is – you haven’t even been back to school.

But I am glad that whatever ails you is curable. I can take you to the nurse, or the doctor and they just nod and say it’s normal. I’ll take normal sickness any day. What would I do if you suffered from something more…permanent? I don’t know. But my heart goes out to every parent who’s had to find the answer to that question the hard way.

I love you.

Dad.