my hand as we went in.
‘He’ll be OK,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ said Dr Linley, as we sat down. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘Woody keeps being sick,’ I explained, ‘he can’t keep anything down, and now he’s gone all listless and floppy.’
‘Right, and this has been going on how long?’ she said, as she proceeded to examine him.
‘Since last night,’ I said. ‘I just thought it was a bug and he’d get over it. But it seems to be getting worse.’
Right on cue, Woody threw up again. Poor little mite, it wasn’t even as if he had much to throw up.
Darren was, as usual, prepared with antibacterial spray, wipes and plastic gloves and went into clean-up mode, while the doctor was explaining that Woody might need to go into hospital to have some fluids.
Hospital? My baby in hospital? That had simply never occurred to me. The last time I’d been in our local hospital had been to see Dad all connected up to drips and wires. I’d vowed I never wanted to set foot in there again, which is why I had elected to have Woody at home.
‘Oh,’ was all I could manage to say, feeling helpless, while Darren took charge and asked all the right questions, like how serious was it, and how long did she think he’d stay there. It was as if I was cocooned in a great bubble of silence, I could barely register what the doctor was saying, while Darren picked Woody out of my arms, and motioned me to get up.
‘I’ll ring ahead for you,’ I heard, as if in a dream, and she pressed an envelope into my hand, and said, ‘Take this with you.’
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