First, she called Tom’s work, but, failing to rouse him anywhere in the building, Ruth, his secretary, promised she’d get him to call his wife straight back. No response from his mobile, either, so Madeleine immediately phoned their GP, quickly outlining the situation to the receptionist.
“Measles? Are you sure, Madeleine?” Rachel Kennedy, another mother with a much older child at Applewood, asked. “Isn’t Clara immunized against that?”
Swallowing her mortification, she explained to Rachel that no, neither of her children had received the MMR jab.
“I...I had...no idea. I’ll have to get Dr. Barrett to call you back about a house call, then.” Rachel’s disapproval was so thick Madeleine could actually feel it down the line. Her voice dripped with scorn. “Obviously you can’t bring a highly contagious child to the clinic.”
Obviously.
“I understand that. Thanks, Rachel.”
After hanging up the phone, Madeleine moved once again to her daughter’s bedside and choked back a sob at Clara’s now undeniably rash-ridden, feverish body, the full implications of her and Tom’s decision now well and truly coming home to roost.
7
I felt ready to tear out my hair as I paced the floor at Glencree Clinic. My personal and professional lives had once again merged in the worst way.
Yet I hadn’t worked, at least here, for days.
I’d spent the weekend at home with Rosie when I was more certain of my diagnosis and she displayed all of the classic measles symptoms. Of course, I had consulted with a GP, too, but ultimately for measles—much like chicken pox—you had to let it run its course. It’s a virus and can’t be treated with antibiotics.
On Friday morning when I called in to work and stayed at home with Rosie, I worked to control her fever, tried to keep her comfortable, all the while wondering how on earth this had happened, and hoping against hope that my tough-cookie survivor would have the strength to battle it out.
This was the outcome Greg and I most worried about back when her allergy was first diagnosed and we had to make a call on the MMR vaccine.
“If she catches something, we’ll just have to deal with it,” my husband advised, typically implacable. “It’s unlikely, though—herd immunity for measles is very high in this country. And anyway what choice do we have?”
None whatsoever, I knew, realizing now that Greg’s faith in so-called herd immunity had clearly been misplaced. Measles might be rare these days, but it was still possible.
And for my poor Rosie just now, terrifyingly real.
At least I knew my own chances of getting sick were slim. As a health-care professional, I was vaccinated as a matter of course against most standard infectious diseases. Still, as any parent knows, those first few hours dealing with a coughing child and a germ-filled house is enough to drive you crazy.
But I’d thought we were getting through it OK—or rather Rosie was—until tonight.
Lucy had come over earlier in the evening to help me out and confirmed that, yes, little Clara Cooper had indeed also gone down with it, but according to Madeleine seemed to have improved over the weekend.
I started to think positive; maybe Rosie was close to being out of the woods, too. But then, almost out of nowhere, her early fever returned. And spiked. Seriously spiked, over 104 degrees. Almost in tandem, my heart dropped the other direction.
I knew the danger zone all too well and my daughter was in it.
Lucy and I hustled to get her undressed and into a cold bath, but still, we couldn’t get her fever down. I’ve dealt with a lot of stressful medical situations, but it’s completely different when it’s your child, your own flesh and blood.
While I was trying my damnedest not to panic, in truth I was very scared. But even though I was scared, I’m not an idiot. And when Rosie had a febrile seizure, right there in the bath, I knew that this was very serious. Fighting the infection was consuming her and I needed to get her to the hospital—fast.
Unlike the good hour it would take to reach one of the Dublin hospitals, Glencree was only fifteen minutes down the road, and my workplace was well enough equipped for pediatric emergencies. Notwithstanding the fact that I implicitly trusted my colleagues to do their best for my little girl.
Lucy and I got Rosie wrapped up and into the car, but the poor thing was in a bad way, shivering and burning up at the same time. I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to remain strong, hoping and praying that it was just one seizure and that it wouldn’t happen again.
But then it did—right as we were flying down the road in Lucy’s Jeep, only minutes away from my workplace. I held on to my daughter in the back seat—to hell with the seat belt—trying to get her to turn on her side safely so she wouldn’t choke on her own tongue.
All the while screaming inside and praying to God not to do this to me again.
Please don’t take my daughter away, too...
When Lucy squealed to a stop in front of the clinic’s entrance, I had to do everything in my power not to jump out of the car and start screaming for assistance. Thankfully, Lucy had no compunction about doing just that on my behalf.
Minutes later, my still-thrashing daughter was strapped to a stretcher and hustled indoors. I recognized several of the staff and nurses and knew one or two of the paramedics on shift, at least by name.
