My daughter stares plaintively at me in the doctor’s office. She’s been sick for three days now, dawdling in a state of pure pathos with runny eyes and a cough like a barking seal. Actually, no, let’s get that right. It sounds, without a doubt, much more like the call-and-response yelps of the velociraptors in Jurassic Park.
Her breathing, too, is alarmingly audible. Through her mouth, it sounds like shovelled gravel. Through her nose, slowly ripping Velcro. We’ve had her out of school for three days, and since she hasn’t been improving as fast as we expected, I’ve taken her to our GP to make sure it isn’t anything more serious.
Soon, we’re in the waiting room at our local surgery, entertaining ourselves with the orgy of text on its info-packed walls. Some posters offer cheerily broad advice – “Stay hydrated!”, “Eat 5 fruits and vegetables a day!” – while others, such as those advising recent visitors to Bermuda what to do if they show signs of scombroid fish poisoning, are too specific for me to explain to a still preliterate four-year-old. The most numerous signs are those highlighting that abuse against staff will not be tolerated, spread across the room in sufficient number that one must imagine they’re depressingly necessary.
[ I met my son crying at the school gates and felt like a war criminalOpens in new window ]
A screen hanging over the far corner runs a silent carousel of images and short videos on everything from flu preparedness to the tell-tale signs of scarlet fever. Here, too, text is in great supply, with huge essays displayed much too quickly to be consumed at once. One particularly prolix fact-sheet about spotting the signs of an abdominal aortic aneurysm, challenges the reader to digest roughly 4,000 words of text in 15 seconds before it flashes off again, replaced with a video of a smiling doctor and a nurse – both, it seems, AI generated – reminding people, once again, that abuse against staff will not be tolerated.
I routinely have intrusive thoughts about horrible things that could happen to my children
Séamas O’Reilly: Am I a soft, overprotective dad bringing his own childhood traumas to bear?
Séamas O’Reilly: The idea that one man might shoulder burden of spite for us all is heroic
My son’s new hobby is confounding me with ‘mystyrieyos’ riddles that he puts in writing
My favourite is the unwieldy mnemonic they advertise for sepsis, in which the letters of that condition are helpfully acronymised with warning signs for the condition. Unfortunately, the person charged with creating said acronym appears to have been a small child who wandered into the building by mistake, resulting in a bafflingly vague word salad that is almost impossible to remember. While I can forgive the clumsy wording of “E – extreme shivering or muscle pain” or “P – passing no urine all day”, I am rendered wide-eyed with glee on reading “I – it feels like you are going to die”.
My shameful mirth is cut short as we are called up to be seen. My daughter is greeted by the lovely doctor, who calls her a “beauty” and compliments her glasses. This does a great job of soothing her nerves, and my own.
I always feel slightly nervous taking my kids to the doctor. True, the prospect of them being seriously ill is never far from my thoughts. Like most dads, I spent much of my children’s early lives believing them to be in imminent mortal danger, and routinely experienced intrusive thoughts about all the horrible things that could happen to them; a rare exotic disease; a button lodging in their throat; a slip of my hand sending their pram directly beneath a passing bus.
But there’s also a less noble trepidation within me any time a trip to the doctor is needed; a sense that I’ll be immediately sussed as a bad parent for not spotting something obvious. “So tell me, Mr O’Reilly,” I imagine the GP asking, one hand on her phone ready to call social services, “when did you first realise your daughter had grown antlers?”
[ Séamas O’Reilly: ‘Would you rather have no stomach or no bum?’ my son asksOpens in new window ]
Thankfully, this visit proves uneventful. My daughter’s ears and throat are checked with those futuristic light-probe things doctors use, while her chest and back are examined with a stethoscope – I am happy to report kids are still alarmed by how cold those are – and my poorly little poppet does a great job of coughing on command. After this, she is judged to be still a little unwell, but very much on the mend. She gets a unicorn sticker, and there are no calls to social services made in my presence, so I consider it a win-win.
On the walk home, perhaps overestimating my medical knowledge, she asks me how to avoid getting sick in the first place. “Well,” I say, faltering slightly, “umm, drink plenty of water and eat lots of fruits and vegetables!” She seems content with this. And I can teach her the tell-tale signs of sepsis another day.
