A Cry for a Cry: A Tooth for a Tooth

When you arrived back from work and find a small urine receptacle and something called a U-Bag on the dining table, the first words out your mouth are not going to be, "Nice day?"
Instead, I asked Carla if she’d been to the doctors, and should I be worried. She said she had, but it wasn’t for her. The three or four seconds that followed ground the world around me to a halt. I recalled Amelie’s temperament from the morning when I lifted her out of the cot, which was its usual mix of relief, excitement and mischievousness. I delved further back. The previous night Amelie had a warm head. Carla asked me to feel it, which I did (using the back of the hand, not the palm), and while it was a little warmer than usual, I didn’t feel the need to crack the seal on the reserve bottle of Capol just yet. I then thought about why a doctor would want urine.

In my late 20s, I had developed an unhealthy interest in illnesses, so much so I had purchased an encyclopaedia that would enable me self-diagnose potential life threatening illnesses before they manifested. The book was the size of a small loaf, and included a chart with various symptoms that brought the reader to a happy, or worrying, diagnosis. For obvious reasons, the book was placed deliberately beside my toilet, and helped me attain the unenviable title of hypochondriac within two weeks of its purchase. During the summer of 1997, to the spring of 1998, I was a regular attendee of my local doctors complaining of such diseases as Yellow Fever, Trench Foot, and Tuberculosis. At my height, I was so paranoid about falling ill I asked my doctor if protruding veins along the arms was a condition of heart disease! Because of all this, I remember urine can be tested for all manner of disorders ranging from a simple urinary infection, diabetes, kidney or renal dysfunction, or worse case scenario, a tumour. I looked over to Amelie, who was chomping on a slice of cucumber. I made a funny face, and she smiled. She was eating, and happy, so how bad could it be?

Carla said that after I left for work she had checked Amelie’s temperature using one of those digital ear thermometers – it’s the same brand and model they use in our local doctors. The little LCD flashed up digits that lit the power trails straight to her heart. 38.1 degrees. Amelie had a fever. Notwithstanding a little hay fever we suspect she has, and the colic, Amelie has been fine and healthy from day 1. She rang the doctors and he went through a few investigative questions; was she eating; had she been sick; any weight loss etc. And though the answer was no to all these, he asked Carla to bring Amelie to the surgery. While there, her temperature had risen to 38.4 degrees. He checked her lungs, listened to her chest, and checked her skin for rashes. He then explained how to use the U-Bag, which is a small bag for babies that collects urine so it can be transferred into a container. Amelie had issues with us putting on nappies, and now we were supposed to attach a bag? I don’t think so. I checked her temperature again – it was down to 37.3 degrees. We gave her a dose of Calpol. I then stroked her hair and did my best to keep her spirits up by calling upon my inventory of entertaining faces, noises and funny walks. I also threw a few new ones in there to keep the act fresh (Amelie seems to like us mimicking her every movement). And behind the strange faces and weird voices, I was dying inside. Here was my little girl, my beautiful baby, and something was inside her, causing her to feel unwell.

That night Amelie’s sleep pattern was restless, at best. She usually goes off quite well and only needs a gentle coaxing should she wake, but that night she was inconsolable. Every time she fell asleep in our arms, and we placed her in the cot, she’d start crying. Whenever we walked away, she let out a noise that sounded like a cat being de-skinned. Carla and I both dug in and spent turns rocking Amelie in our arms, and trying again to lay her down. But nothing was helping. For whatever reason, I suggested we place a little Anbasol on her gums, because she might be teething. It was a long shot, but it was all we had left. Shortly after, Amelie finally fell asleep on her own. I went to bed, and Carla stayed in the nursery. I heard her three times let out that God-awful cry, and each time my heart fractured a little more. I’m sure you’ve done this yourself, but when your child in hurting, be it from a fever, headache, or something worse, you ask God for one favour – let it be me. No child should suffer. They are pure and innocent, and we are blessed to have them in our lives because if nothing else, just their smile alone can lift our heels and make us look at this world more kindly. They are gifts, and gifts to be treasured and protected to the very last. Guess God was too busy that night.

The next day I took Amelie from her cot and held her tight. I brought her downstairs and kissed her brow, which was reassuringly cool. I checked her temperature again, and it had lowered. I then changed her, attempted to make her laugh, and stroked her hair, like I do most mornings when my wife is lay sleeping. Before I left, I woke Carla and told her the good news. When I returned home that evening, she too had good news; Amelie was teething. This explained the fever, and the crying. My girl is growing up.