Bring Out Your Dead...

The Netherlands is in the grip of an epidemic. According to official sources, influenza is wreaking havoc accross the nation, emptying schools, decimating workplaces, and confining thousands of people to their sniffling beds. Mind you, before we start painting white crosses on the front door of anyone with a dripping nose it pays to keep in mind that an epidemic is apprently in place when more than 100 or so people per 100,000 have an illness. Thus, it's hardly time to throw ourselves onto burning pyres yet. For a nation that considers it perfectly normal for a dozen people to die ice skating when the winter gets cold enough to freeze lakes and canals, influenza is a walk in the park.
Mind you, it is a right pain in the arse when a whole country seems to be sick. Carl of course is quite ill, born as he was with eustacean tubes the perfect shape for incubating infections and an immune-challenged upper respiratory system that is determined to crash as soon as the temperatures dips below, oh I don't know, about 24 degrees celcius. Considering that the difference in temperature between Singapore and Lochem was more than 40 degrees for a considerable period of time, it's hardly surprising he's sick now.
The coughing is what really troubles him, keeping him...and me...awake at least half the night. And when he finally falls asleep from exhaustion fever sets in and he's glowing like a freshly baked potato by the time he wakes up, usually around 3 am.
There is only so much cough medicine you can administer. Did you know that the most common cause for pediactric hospital admissions is overdose of cough medicine? That little statistic is often uppermost in my mind during winter. I can understand how it would happen, when the poor little buggers are coughing like their lungs are going to flop out of their chests and they are literally vomiting from the effort, you'll do almost anything. I've even resorted to giving him that classic Old Wives Tale remedy; sugar water. Normally I wouldn't even dream of pouring what is basically pure sugar down the throats of one of my super-active boys (picture a squirrel on speed, then throw a few fireworks at it to get an idea of the effect) but after 3 days of Carl hacking, coughing, puking, and almost turning purple trying to breathe I would have bought up all the blue Smarties in town then washed them down his throat with Coca Cola if I thought it would help. To be honest, I'm not sure it does, but I'm persisting anyway. Sleep deprivation is sending me insane and now that hubby has left to go on board again, there's only one captain on this little ship and she's ready to hit the bottle.
As I was preparing another cup early this morning a little voice provided a running commentary. "And this is how we make sugar water...take the kids cup out of the dishwasher...get a teaspoon out of the drawer...pick up the sugar...put 2 spoons in the cup............." at this point my frayed temper and fading grasp on reality had me gripping the spoon in a death grip. Turning slowly, I faced Carl who was perched on a stool just behind me, watching every move and practising his sport commentators voice. As our eyes met I could see his were filled with laughter, despite the dawning realisation that perhaps his Ventolin-fuelled euphoria may have caused him to push Mummy just a little too far at this ungodly hour of the morning, topped off by a gleefull self confidence that he was just too adorable to resist. For a moment there was a pause as we each considered how this was going to play out. Then without taking his eyes off mine he continued "then Mummy adds the hot water and stirs......" We both cracked up laughing, which of course made him cough again, but at least there was a cup of warm sugar water on hand and we could pretend that would help.