We are now approaching week three of house arrest. This virus doing the rounds landed upon our doorstep and it’s still lingering a fortnight later.
First the big kid. She brought it home. Crazy high temperatures. Hallucinations. Sweats. Coughs. Colds. Puke. Thankfully she is old enough to understand, she drank her fluids and took her meds. In all it wasn’t too bad. She rested up and binged on Netflix for the guts of a week. A trooper, a good patient, loved all the extra attention.
Then the boy hits the floor, same bug, same scary uncontrollable temperatures except he doesn’t understand. It’s heart breaking. I’ve sobbed over him more than I have in all my three pregnancies. Lying there, stiff, glazed eyes staring at blank walls. Refusing to drink. We’ve syringed fluids into his mouth just to keep him hydrated. It’s just awful on them. If only we could trade places.
My house has never been so quiet or clean. It’s Thursday and the fridge is still full. This is not normal. The sooner he’s swinging toys around the playroom, calling me for a chase up the stairs and pulling the clothes from the rads the better. I want my little messer back climbing the walls.
In the background of it all the babog got her first tooth, bottom left, no fuss. She’s also eating what Frankie and Kayla refuse. Little goblin loving her food. Baby led weaning for the win. I’m now saying prayers to whoever is above that she’s not struck down next. I don’t think I could cope with that.
In the past two weeks we’ve had three doctors visits, a trip to A&E and I’ve opened google too many times to count. This bug is lethal.
F**k you virus.