Tuesday, March 9th, 2004

     I’m exhausted and sitting beside my son. I’m writing this in a journal from the hospital gift shop and will transfer it to my diary later. Henry was finally admitted and is being closely watched, and he’s not the only one.

      The doctors still aren’t sure what’s wrong with him, even though I am. He’s been given a sedative and is actually sleeping. The nurse who administered it said it was strong enough to knock out a very large dog or small horse.

     It was quite a struggle to get him admitted, though. We actually had to sit in the waiting room for three hours before anyone would see him. We were finally allowed in a room. I held Henry on my lap as he continued to cry and squirm. Dr. Whale and an attendant came in soon after. The doctor looked flushed, which I attributed to how busy the hospital seemed to be. He told me Dr. Gordon had been notified and then asked me what was wrong.

     “Dr. Whale, my son needs to be admitted. He has waking fever.”

     “I’ve never heard of that.” Small beads of sweat on the doctor’s forehead became visible as he came closer to check Henry’s vitals. “According to Dr. Gordon’s notes, all symptoms point to the flu.”

     “It’s not the flu. He hasn’t slept in two days. I don’t know how to fix this.”

     “Sorry, but I’m certain Dr. Gordon knows exactly what she’s talking about.” He pretended to listen to what I was saying and started to check Henry’s forehead, but winced and stepped back as my son continued to scream on my lap. “Just give him lots of fluids. I can prescribe some medicine that will help him sleep, if you like.”

     “Dr. Gordon already prescribed some, but it isn’t working. Please—“

     “Miss Mills, I don’t know why you’re wasting my time! And can you please calm your son?!” Dr. Whale whipped around and took a deep breath. He slowly faced me again and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his white coat. “Sorry.” He expected me to be upset, and I was, but not for the reason he expected.

     One of the symptoms of waking fever is irritability, which usually translates to fits of crying in children. Adults don’t usually contract it because the illness claims its victims long before they can reach that age.

     “Doctor, how long has it been since you’ve slept?” I asked.

     “I don’t know—a couple of days, perhaps? Sometimes things can get very busy here.”

     “But you usually find time to sleep?”

     “Usually.” Dr. Whale’s tense face relaxed. “Waking fever, you said?” I nodded.  He turned to his attendant and muttered something before excusing himself. The attendant assured me someone was coming in right away before leaving, herself.

     About ten minutes later, Dr. Gordon entered the room.

     “Where’s Dr. Whale?” I asked, knowing the answer.

     “We had to admit him.” She answered. “He’s running a fever and seems to be experiencing symptoms similar to your son. Miss Mills, we’d like to admit Henry.”