Thursday got me rushing out of our office doors in an untimely exit. I just had a call from my mother saying Matt's getting the F again. He's been hitting a low-grade F reading on the thermometer since Monday night, but I thought he's already ok.
So I made a mad dash to the doors. Had to bring him to the lab for some tests.
Although I doubted it, I've always hoped that blood extraction could be done in a jiffy. It's not about the noise of Matt's wails or the gawking we'd get from strangers (I really really do not care about this because my utmost concern will always be of my son). It was the sight of those copious tears, twas simply heartbreaking. So was his futile attempts to break out from my tight embrace and his incessant "done na" cries. *Sniff* I could only imagine his fear and feelings of betrayal. *Sniff, sniff* I would readily have given anything and everything to spare my son that ordeal.
After the CBC translation and check-up, which activated his tear glands again, we headed straight home, even without the urine test, to get dear tot back to his comfort zone, alleviate his stress and eventually calm him down.
Later that night, with the urine sample in hand, I with my father went back to the hosp. And moments later, with the antibiotic prescription given by the ER physician (but which I had second thoughts of giving to Matt), we were on our way back home.