Last Saturday I woke up with what became an increasingly bad pain under my bump. It stopped me walking properly, or getting in and out of chairs, beds or up and down stairs. It didn’t feel like anything particularly terrible, more a muscle or something but as the day went on every movement became more and more unpleasant, bodily functions deeply distressing and when it got to the point that I had actually shrieked out loud several times and could no longer disguise the pain in front of the children, Max put his foot down and said it was time to seek help. It was getting to evening and finding anyone to take care of the kids was going to get harder the longer we left it.
He was right of course; although I was fairly sure that the baby had stretched, bruised or trapped something, thanks to having put his head fairly firmly downwards, I was just beginning to have that slightly unsafe and discomforted feeling that goes with early labour. I was fairly sure it wasn’t, but I wasn’t quite sure. You know how sometimes you hear a child cry and you think “was that mine?” but when it is your you KNOW it is? Well, I felt a bit like that – I just wasn’t quite sure any more and I didn’t really feel happy to leave it.
Off we trotted to the labour ward, the same room I sat and cried in earlier in the week and put ourselves into the hands of a completely lovely midwife. I think she thought I was going to be in labour and I think the doctor I saw did too. I was still firmly in that “I’m sure it isn’t but…” state. And so I was monitored, which naturally produced plenty of wiggling and Braxton Hicks and, lying back on the bed in a semi reclined position, I finally got some relief from the pain.
Of course, you’d know if I’d been in labour. I got examined and it was nothing, by which time a days worth of pain was reduced to nearly none at all – I still had to talk my way out of a nights stay there though and the next day I spent entirely reclined. Not even the possibility of the baby engaging was enough to make me want to flirt further with that sort of pain 🙁
This total recovery the minute you seek help leads me to believe that a whole version of health care is missing from our array of conventional health service, alternative therapies, additional practices and all those myriad of different types of keeping healthy we have. I cannot be the only parent who finally puts a ‘is it croup, is it asthma?’ child into the car at midnight (would you believe I once got stuck in a 2 hour traffic jam after doing this – at MIDNIGHT!) only to have them utterly recover the minute you put them in front of a frazzled out of hours doctor. Amelie has been a champion at this over the years; really she just needs the application of cold air to fix most complaints. I reckon the NHS could be saved billions with some form of out of hours shuffle past a doctor and return straight home service. It would be great to be able to look up such things somewhere at midnight when what you really need is sleep and the reassurance that you aren’t in fact ignoring meningitis.
Imagine the entry “Bring out your sick! We’ll do nothing for them except sniff at you and suggest Calpol and sleep but they will be miraculously cured by our fully qualified doctors and practitioners! Hurrah!”
I can dream 😆 Please tell me I’m not the only one with a season ticket for emergency care that never actually requires medical help at all?