My son is splayed on the couch, watching TV but not really seeing. Surrounded by Gatorade boxes and dosage cups measured in teaspoons-and-a-half, his eyes are glassy while his forehead radiates red-hot heat.
I panicked a little Sunday as he showed me one, then two, then five shape-shifting rashes on his pale flesh. His persistent low-grade fever from the past 10 days was inching higher. The sullen, adolescent scowl that overcame his beautiful eight-year-old face took my breath away, when I dared to ruin his weekend by taking him out for ice cream.
I’m placing my bets on this doctor, the third we’ve seen since the fevers started. She’s earnest and attentive, and listens carefully to every symptom I describe. From the inflamed lymph node to the low-grade fever to the sudden personality change, she takes it all in. As she peeks at his lower back to see the amoeba shaped red rash with the white center, her expression of benign concern changes to one of satisfaction. For a moment I envy how much she loves being a doctor.
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