So, we have a stomach bug going around my house. And it’s wicked. Horrible. The can’t-keep-anything-down-barfing-every -40-minutes type bug.
So after doing this overnight with Monkey, I decided to call her doctor for some Zofran. They wanted her seen, which okay fine, I get. Her normal doc wasn’t there, so we agreed to see one of his partners.
After waiting another three hours, during which Monk threw up another five times, once while walking into the doctor’s office (she had a bucket…and tough kid that she is, she kept walking while throwing up).
Then the doc came in, and here’s where things got weird.
Initially, she refused to give us Zofran, saying kids should “be made to tough it out.”
The look on my face must have been, “Are you out of your mind?” because she went on…
“I’m old school. Kids should have to just deal with the vomiting. It’s like giving too many antibiotics.”
I wasn’t asking for antibiotics. When the kids have a cold, I don’t take them to the doctor. I keep them home, give them Tylenol and lots of fluids. If it gets bad, we see a doctor, but I don’t ask for antibiotics. I know about MRSA and C-dif. I also know that antibiotics won’t work for a virus.
So I don’t ask for big meds. I wasn’t even asking for anything to make her well. I was asking for something to make her feel better.
Because I don’t believe in needless suffering. And I don’t understand why you would refuse to give someone a drug that will ease their suffering just because she’s a kid.
In any case, she went on to explain that children need to wash their hands, and they need to learn to do it effectively. The tone was…different. Almost like she was blaming Monkey because Monkey got sick. Like if my child learned her lesson, she wouldn’t have gotten sick in the first place.
At that, I said, “She’s diligent about washing hands. She’s very conscious of that.”
She countered with the notion that children are notorious for not washing their hands.
I could have told her that this is a kid who reads food labels to make sure everything that goes with her to school doesn’t contain peanuts, because a boy in her class is allergic. She coughs into her sleeve. And she sings “Happy Birthday” two times when she’s washing her hands, because she doesn’t want to make anyone sick.
But I didn’t have to. Because Monk looked at me, picked her her bucket, and threw up.
The doc looked at me and said, “I’ll write you a script for Zofran. But only a couple. I don’t want her having it for several days. I’m tired of people over-medicating. They hand these things out like candy in the ER.”
I wanted to make a smart remark, but I was getting what I wanted, so I thanked her instead.
Then Monk threw up again.
“I’ll give her one now.”
After what was probably one of the weirdest doctor’s visits, we came home. Monk has been fine since that initial Zofran (because it’s a miracle drug, I’m telling you).
Only now, Chewey has it.
This is not the land of milk and honey. That much I’m sure of.