“Hi I’m Pip I’m the on-call paedatrician tonight, what’s up with this young man”
“I understand he’s autistic what’s telling you he’s not well”
“he’s not stimming and he’s not screaming”
Aka holy hell lady I think this kid is dying!
48 hours and the great autistic one was quite, still, asleep, not screaming, not stimming, not headbutting.
So by now we’re panicking and thus we become intimately familiar with the emergency department at 4am. And to answer your question, no, we don’t get seen quicker because ultimate dadda works there.
So the little dude has tonsillitis, – we think. After donning the bear attack suit Pip the pedatrician managed to lever open the jaws of death long enough to glimpse “big angry red” tonsils.
So we’re getting antibiotics into him, and pain meds, lots and lots of pain meds, but that’s about it next to no fluids and no food for 4 days so he’s lost what little weight we’d put on him, but that’s ok. And in the mean time he remains a pathetic, whinging, whimpering ball of autistic misery. At some point the bad mumma in me battles her way to the surface and bellows out “oh shut up and harden up”
bad mumma is ignored.
And he continues to act as though his last day on earth was yesterday
And we remain tired, very very tired.