I’m not one to medicate my child, or anyone, or anything for that matter. I refused to go the doctor for anything less than blisters in my throat. I drink tea out the wazoo at the slightest hint of a sniffle but hey you could not get me to drink theraflu if your cat’s life depended on it. I despise shots and avoid anyone who wields a needle as much as I do heavy perfume wearers or people who roll every single one of their rs or a particular person named Jess. Those flashy needle wielders are not to be trusted, stabbing incorrigibly at any bare thigh within an arm’s length. No sir, keep me away, and I’ll take all I love with me thank you very much.
But when it comes to e I get confused. When he wails and runs a slight fever and doesn’t want to be put down and doesn’t want to be held and when he won’t even nurse I know something’s wrong. And one of the things we’re told to do is to medicate. I protest in silence, giving no comment when A suggests we break out the children’s Tylenol. So, e chokes it down, gasping and sobbing as that saccharine cherry flavor coats his tongue and makes it’s way through his blood stream. Last night it did no good, but tonight we’ve given him a full dose according to his weight: 2.5 mL of manufactured hope in a bottle.
It’s so bad, he’s been crying outside. He’s never cried outside before.