I took my son to the doctor today, for probably the 30th time in his nearly two Years of life. (Bloody tummy bug kmt.) He’s not sickly don’t panic! I’ve just settled into that inescapable maternal mania that afflicts all first-time mums, but runs riot in me. That incessant transformative anxiety where every spot is chicken pox and every sneeze pediatric ebolese swine-flu.
Now don’t get me wrong, motherhood isn’t solely to blame for these melodramatic misdiagnoses. Long before my son I frequented NHS Choices; Net Doctor and Web MD to allocate myself a virus or two. In fact, my family’s ) favourite joke of all time is that I should have studied medicine (since I diagnose everybody anyway). Their jokes are dry. They’re dry too, but you’ll come to see that for yourselves.
Yet, despite these unending diagnoses, I conscientiously objected to visiting my GP. Or rather, every time I deigned to call the surgery; to listen to the crappy lift music whilst I eagerly awaited my rightful place at “position one in the queue,” one of life’s greatest existential ponderings crept into my head: “fi wah?” I would ask myself.
I knew from their automated service they didn’t really want to answer any calls, and I knew I ought to book the appointment online. But most importantly, I knew and you know more time calling the GP is waste of time, becah, seeing the GP is a waste of time.
See I was raised by herbalists, and when I say that I don’t mean my parents went around bunnin weed. I mean, I was raised on natural medicine: food, plants and ting. Therefore, by now, a big hardback like myself knows there is a tea for everything, and that most of my illnesses stem from being mash up and run down. Really, I rarely need the doctor. (Yay me!)
That is until my boy came along. Now I need Dr Can’tBeArsed like a fat kid needs cake because I cannot take risks with my baby, my sweet, sweet boy. So I visit my GP, even out of hours on weekends at the earliest evidence of illness. Not because I want their western medicine or tautologies, but I crave their reassurance. Their flippant time-pressured glances over his body and speedily checked checklist of symptoms, that lead to their assessment: he’s going to be OK. My baby’s going to be OK.
So I leave, kiss my teeth and rant about jobsworth Dr so and so, safe in the knowledge that today’s greatest gripe is the NHS.
But my boy, my baby, he’s gonna be OK.
Photo credit: Brackenbury clinic