When it comes to ‘minor’ illnesses I’ve got the bedside manner of The Terminator.
Take the medicine. Go to sleep. I’ll be back.
It’s how I want to be treated. I don’t need any TLC.
My family on the other hand want the kind of attention reserved for cartwheeling puppies on facebook.
“I could have died and you would never have known”…. croaks my wife when I haven’t checked on her for 3 minutes.
“Can you get me some water? ” calls out Max in a slow, death drawl
“I’ve got a sore head and my throat hurts.” Zak continues
I go back in with some panadol.
“I can’t swallow pills”
“Then drink the liquid”
“I don’t like the taste.” he wails, throwing his head back like a Shakespearean actor
“Please it will really help. In 10 minutes you will feel much better”
“No. I’m not having it. It tastes disgusting…….. Oh it hurts it hurts….”
“I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.” One of my many Dad lines that gets me nowhere.
Finally after bribes and threats he agrees to take the syringe of stickiness. This is not my first day on the job. I am prepared with wet wipes, cloths and water. I know that it has the potential to end up over their chin, down their pyjamas and on the bed. I am in no mood to be changing bed sheets at 3am.
The torturous sipping and gagging routine has the vein in my temple throbbing.
More tears. Fake gagging. Pretend vomit.
I grab the dripping syringe millimeters before it hits the pillow. A sigh of relief as he sucks out the last drop. I gather the medical supplies to leave.
But I forget about the glass of water on the bedside table. It’s a schoolboy error. I knew I should have brought the water bottle. I knock the glass straight onto his bed.
Supercali-fucking-fragilous. Where is Mary Poppins when I need her.
I can’t face changing the sheets so I grab 3 towels and lay them on the wet patch.
He will never know. I hope. As I back out the room.