Today I took Ra-Ra for her first ever real doctor’s appointment. Not the sort where you just go for a check up – the kind where there’s something wrong and you need a diagnosis and a prescription.
Ra-Ra started coughing on Monday. It got steadily worse, and by today I thought I’d better take her to a GP. As a premature baby, she’s vulnerable to respiratory infections and I don’t want to take any chances.
By coincidence, the doctor she saw was also born premature. Dr Tiny Mhinga’s nickname comes from the fact that he could fit in a shoebox when he was born. He’s clearly come a long way since then:
Ra-Ra handled the consultation with aplomb, and stayed calm throughout the long and drawn out visit to the pharmacy to pick up her prescription. She’s on Augmentin, Celestamine and Prospan syrup.
I was thrilled at how happy she seemed to take her medicine, but it has turned out to be too good to be true. The 3ml of antibiotic suspension she’s supposed to get twice a day has, so far, been vomited up or spat out.
Despite the diagnosis – an upper respiratory infection – she seems her normal self. Right now she’s dozing in my left arm, stirring every now and then in order to suckle. (I’m typing this post on my phone.)
I’m hoping that later, when I give her the Celestamine, she keeps it down and goes to sleep. Half the people I know are sick – my parents, my sister and my husband who is in bed with flu – so it’s no wonder she’s developed something. I can only hope that I escape the dreaded lurgy. Touch wood.