by Melissa Hill
A cold shiver ran its way up Madeleine’s spine as she looked back at her feverish daughter and suddenly a new realization set in—one that carried with it a whole new level of worry. Measles... Clara really was ill, too—a lot more feverish and uncomfortable than Jake had been.
Maybe it will be more serious this time.
The odds were small, but they were still odds: measles could be fatal.
For all these years, she and Tom had played them, and now that horrible realization, albeit distant and buried, rose once again to the fore.
Oh, God...what have we done...
Madeleine swallowed hard, and her thoughts instantly turned to Kate O’Hara, who was in the same situation as her at that moment. Well, almost the same. After all, she had Tom to share the burden, whereas poor Kate was on her own.
“Is Rosie OK?” she asked, trembling. “Should I call her mother?”
Lucy was circumspect. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea just at the minute. Like you, she has a lot on her plate now. Maybe you should just focus on Clara for the moment,” her friend advised.
Madeleine nodded. In truth, the idea of talking to Kate just then was horrifying, especially if she, too, suspected Clara was the carrier.
Lucy was probably right and she knew Kate much better than Madeleine did. In fairness, she hardly knew Rosie’s mum at all, having only minimal contact with her at the school or related activities, and of course that time when the poor thing lost her husband.
But, more to the point, what could Madeleine possibly do for Kate’s daughter now other than apologize?
Deciding she’d spent more than enough time wallowing, she said goodbye to Lucy before springing into action and trying to get a handle on this thing.
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.
They would help Rosie, I reassured myself. They had the equipment and resources to control her fever—much more so than what I could do at home. I allowed myself to feel just the tiniest bit of relief and reminded myself that while febrile seizures were scary, they were mostly harmless, a natural result of the body’s high temperature when fighting illness. On a practical level, I knew all this but it still didn’t make it any less scary.
Rosie was in good hands in Glencree; it was the best place for her just then. I had to trust the very talented people around me. I had no choice.
A little later, they were indeed able to stabilize her and bring her temperature down just a little.
I literally pounced on Dr. Jackson, the on-call pediatrician, who just then
was coming my way. I knew her a little, but personal decorum goes out the window when you’re frantic for your child.
“How is she? Will she be OK?” I babbled, my heart in my mouth at the sight of the doctor’s worryingly expressionless face.
“Kate...” she began, using that tone, one I’d heard uttered by hospital staff countless times (hell, I’d used it myself) when bracing themselves to give people news that wasn’t good.
Oh, God... Terrified, I waited for the doctor’s next words to come out of her mouth, bracing myself for the worst.
“It’s looking like Rosie has pneumonia,” Dr. Jackson told me gravely, and I gasped with horror.
Pneumonia...
My God, how had I missed it? I should have had my little girl seen to long before now... What kind of idiot was I? I was supposed to be an RN, for goodness’ sake... I had a goddamn master’s degree and still I didn’t realize my own child had pneumonia...
The doctor put a gentle hand on my arm. “As a precaution, probably best if we transfer her to Dublin, where they can keep an eye on her,” she said, referring to the national children’s hospital in the city. “We’ve given her antibiotics and are now trying to get her hydrated and in better shape for the ambulance journey, but it’s going to take a little time.” She smiled gently. “Kate, I know what you’re thinking and, please, try not to be too hard on yourself—sometimes it’s hard to tell with these things...”
“I just can’t believe I didn’t even consider it...” Especially when pneumonia was one of the most common complications with measles. I burst into tears and allowed Lucy to lead me to a nearby chair, whereupon she let me cry on her shoulder, exhausting myself even further.
Dr. Jackson lightly patted my shoulder and advised that I would be able to reunite with Rosie when they’d finished prepping her for the transfer, while once again reassuring me that I couldn’t have known.
But of course I could; I’m her mother, aren’t I? The one who’s supposed to protect her from harm and keep this kind of stuff from happening in the first place.
Fat lot of good I was at that, I thought sniffing.
I stood up and began pacing, wearing a path in the linoleum floor as I waited to see my daughter.
“Come on, Kate, try to relax,” Lucy said as she fought back a yawn. It was now three o’clock in the morning. I had already told her repeatedly that she should go home to her own family, but she’d insisted on staying. “Rosie’s in good hands—think positive.”
I shook my head. “No, if I sit down, I’ll drive myself crazy thinking.”
About how this was all my fault. How I should have known. Why had I waited three whole days before getting her seen to, assuming she could just fight this on her own?
Right then, a nurse entered the general waiting area and gave me a gentle smile. It was enough to make me want to run over and hug her, yet I still couldn’t be sure if it meant...
“Rosie’s sleeping now, and we have her on an antibiotic drip. The ambulance should be ready soon, and you’re free to go back in and sit with her while we wait.”
Almost sick with relief, I thanked the nurse and looked quickly at Lucy, who offered to head back to the house to bring me some toiletries and clothes—things I hadn’t had the time or the wherewithal to grab when we hightailed it over here hours ago.
I nodded my assent and she asked me if there was anything I needed specifically, but my mind was blank. I didn’t care what she brought me, frankly, because I couldn’t recall a thing that I needed as much as I wanted to be by my little girl’s side. Hold her close, keep her safe.
Like I thought I’d been doing up to now.
On entering Rosie’s hospital room, I was immediately struck by how big the bed was and how small and fragile she was. My heart felt like it was breaking.
My God; she’s only five years old...
She was so pale and she had monitors and machines all around her, tracking every heartbeat, every breath. I walked slowly to the side of the bed and sat down, taking Rosie’s little hand in mine and murmuring, “Mummy’s here, buttercup. It’s going to be OK.”
But was it? a small voice in my mind asked. Again, my brain instinctively tried to go clinical on me—it was ready to spout off the measles statistics that I had been trying to not think about since I first spotted that telltale rash. I tried to tell it to shut up.
It’s just pneumonia—the antibiotics will sort it, it will be OK.
I worked my hardest to take Lucy’s advice and try to think positive, but my mind was too busy lecturing me that there were no guarantees from one minute to the next.
I understood that lesson better than most.
8
The following week, Madeleine felt herself breathe a sigh of relief and offered up the quietest of thankful prayers as the GP took another look into Clara’s mouth and nodded.
Her rash still looked angry and sore, but her fever had all but disappeared, thank goodness. Some color had returned to her cheeks, and today—a week since first displaying any signs of illness—Madeleine’s five-year-old was looking much more like herself.
Dr. Barrett stood up and took a final glance down at Clara. “It looks like you are on the mend, princess,” he said with a smile. “You’re a very lucky girl.” His smile disappeared as he looked at Madeleine. “As are you,” he added in a grave tone.
She kissed her daughter’s forehead, tears of relief pricking at the corners of her eyes, but her attention was returned to Dr. Barrett when he cleared his throat and motioned with a sharp jerk of his head that he wanted to speak with her—privately.
She turned to leave the room and dutifully followed in his wake.
“When will Tom be home?” Dr. Barrett inquired. In his sixties, the Knockroe doctor had been on first-name terms with Madeleine’s family for years and had been her GP since she was a child. She secretly wondered when he was going to retire. Tom said that Frank Barrett would retire at his funeral. He was probably right.
“Not until later. He had to get back to work. He was here for the first few days, of course, but when it looked like she was out of the woods, he went back yesterday.”
Tom had been wonderful at keeping poor Clara’s spirits up, especially when one day he’d arrived home with, of all things, a blow-up kayak and a huge cuddly dolphin, promising their little girl that once she was all better, he’d take her out on the water like they did in Florida. This had raised a much-needed smile from her rash-covered face, and even a few giggles when Tom and Jake proceeded to reenact on the floor of her bedroom the loveliest moment of their trip—a memorable day out on the Gulf when a family of blue dolphins had appeared and proceeded to jump up and down alongside their kayak, delighting them all, especially Clara.
“He only has so much annual leave left, unfortunately, and we have holidays booked for the summer,” Madeleine babbled to the doctor, which earned her a stern harrumph. “I’m sorry, you’re right—that shouldn’t matter at a time like this.”
Especially when it had been a holiday that had gotten them into all this trouble in the first place.
“You’re right, she must have picked it up on the flight back from Florida,” Tom had agreed, when the doctor first came to examine Clara, echoing Madeleine’s early assessment.
On the GP’s advice, her husband had been in touch with the health board to report the incident and put them on alert for potential contamination among other passengers.
“The timeline does sound right,” the doctor concluded. “You got back, when—the Saturday before last? So she would have been exposed about ten days prior to showing any symptoms. Unfortunately, further exposing her classmates at Applewood in the ensuing time,” he’d added pointedly, and, thinking of little Rosie O’Hara, Madeleine winced.
Now Dr. Barrett turned to face her as they reached the living room.
“I don’t know if you and Tom are really cognizant of just how lucky your family is—how lucky Clara is. Especially when you already dodged a bullet with Jake.” He narrowed his eyes at her from behind his spectacles and ran a hand through his full head of shockingly white hair. Madeleine sensed a lecture. She wished Tom was here—especially as she guessed what was coming next. It was so hard having to defend their position over and over—mortifyingly difficult, actually, given what they’d just been through. Her husband was much better than she at arguing the reasons behind their decision not to vaccinate Clara, and Tom had for the most part taken this recent misfortune in his stride.
“We just need to wait things out, Maddie. She’ll be fine. We’ve been through this before,” he reassured, when, after Clara’s diagnosis, Madeleine had castigated herself for their failures. But Tom had once again proceeded to reiterate the reasons why they had decided against the jabs in the first place, outlined their full decision-making process when Jake was a baby and arrived at the same conclusion. “We said the risk was one we weren’t willing to take, and now it’s time for us to stand by that,” he’d repeated gently, while Madeleine thought it was all fine and well to make such decisions without having to face the fallout of the reality: namely, a sick child who was feverish and uncomfortable.
But, in truth, Clara did seem to be fighting it well and now, thank goodness, looked to be in the clear.
“I need to encourage you again,” Frank Barrett reiterated. “When Clara is fully recovered, go and get your children protected against the rest of all these godforsaken illnesses medicine conquered years ago. I’m serious, Madeleine.” She put up a hand, trying to appease him, but he continued, “No, as your doctor, it is my job to say this. You know, there are a lot of GPs in this country who wouldn’t even allow your kids near their clinic. The only reason I haven’t had that policy with you is because I have known your family forever. But I have to put my foot down now. Do you know just how bad this could have been? Do you have any idea? I’m receiving complaints from parents all over Knockroe and beyond. Madeleine, they don’t want their kids around yours—especially not at school.”
