The terror of realising your bubba’s temperature hasn’t gone down despite medication. In fact, it’s gone up. Fast. Over two degrees (celsius) in less than half an hour. She’s coughing. Lethargic. Can’t keep anything in. Not her generally bubbly gorgeous self.

There can’t be anything serious wrong with her. There just can’t be. I love her too much. I don’t want anything to go wrong. Ever. This moment makes me think of the many things that are going to make her sad or unwell in her life. And makes me want to wrap her up in cotton wool. Or put her back in my belly and keep her safe. Forever. Ugh, I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want her to feel like this either.

First things first – I call my mumma. Even though I know what I should be doing, I just need her to reassure me. Then I call my doctor’s out of hours number. Then the 24 hour medical assistance number. They do an over-the-phone assessment, which includes listening to her breathe along with me checking all sorts of things. Then the voice at the other end of the phone calmly tells me what I knew all along. The combination of fever and her shortness of breath mean she needs to have a hands on assessment. Immediately. But not to worry. Um, yeah – right – sure!

It’s 10pm when I leave our very worried looking dogs behind and take my burning-up bubba out into the cold night to the closest hospital emergency room. Luckily, it’s only a 6 minute drive. Not so luckily, 3 minutes into that 6 minutes I realise I am going to faint. I am shaking violently and my vision is blurred. This is not so good as I am driving. I pull into the quieter lane and stop. I drink some water and try to practice the breathing techniques learnt in my calm birth antenatal class. I’m not 100% but I feel at least like I can get to the hospital now. I have to get to the hospital before her temperature gets any higher. That thought wills me to forward motion.

Can I park here? Right out the front of the hospital on the main street? I don’t even care. I am terrible at the best of times these days at remembering to lock my car. Tonight I’m surprised I even remembered to close the doors. With my Love Bug cradled in my arms, I head for the fluorescent lighting of the emergency room. My first thought is how many patients are waiting at this time on a Monday night. My second thought is that I am – for the second time in 10 minutes – about to faint. And cry. Simultaneously. But I can’t faint – I am holding my bubba. I manage to get myself to the nurse’s station and give our details to the nurse. Other patients in the waiting room look at me with compassion. None of them wants a bubba that small to need to be here. Me most of all. People offer me a seat, water, help. Gives a girl faith in human kind. My mum arrives. To my credit, I do not fall into a heap. I can’t now, I’m someone’s mumma, I need to hold it together. No-one seems put off when we are the second ones called to the triage nurse, despite being the last of about 20 to walk through the doors.

Tell the story and symptoms to the triage nurse. Vitals taken. Temperature slightly lower than when we left home. Triage nurse shows us to paediatrics. Tell the story and symptoms to the paediatrics nurse. She needs fluids and they need a urine sample. From a 7 month old baby. In a cup! They offer her strange formula in a bottle with a strange teat. She rejects it outright. I feed her. 5 times over the next 2 hours. The doctor arrives. Tell the story and symptoms to him. She still has a fever. Her breathing is still laboured. They prick her heel to take some blood. She cries for the first time tonight. She really is such a happy little bubba – and what a trooper. I’m so proud.

Time passes. Still no pee. Time for a chest x-ray. They take us to radiation, put a protective coat on me & a protective apron over her ovaries. I hold her beautiful little arms while they take the x-ray. Of course, this is the moment she decides is good to pee. The 60 seconds in the past 2 hours I wasn’t holding the pee sample cup under her. Fabulous. This, naturally, is the thing that makes me cry. It’s always the littlest thing that tips us over the edge.

Back to our waiting lounge I try to feed her again, but she is more interested in sleeping than feeding. Of course she is – it’s 1am. I’m more interested in sleeping too, but my adrenalin won’t let me. They finally give her some panadol. She has a very small feed then falls asleep in my arms. She looks so peaceful and blissfully unaware of the virus trying to make nasty in her precious little body.

Another hour passes and they are making plans to check us in for the evening. We can’t leave until they have a sample. I will her with all of my might to pee. Just as the nurse arrives with the paperwork, she pees. Mum and I cheer. What else would we do? It’s nearly 2am and as long as her sample is okay, we can go home. I want her to be in the best place for her, but I don’t want that to be hospital.

Our cheering brings the doctor to our side. He finds our palpable excitement amusing. He’s lovely, as is the nurse. I think you’d have to be a special kind of person to work in emergency paediatrics. One with a huge, soft heart. The doctor tells me how beautiful she is, takes the pee sample and disappears down the long dark corridor. It seems like seconds only (but in reality was probably half an hour) before he’s back telling me everything is okay. Her chest x-ray, which he now tells me he was worried about, shows a bronchial virus. She will probably be unwell for 4 days. Keep her fluids up. Keep her away from other bubs. Monitor her temperature and general demeanour and come back if there are any worrying signs. But for now, take her home to bed. And get some sleep yourself.

Sure. I can do that. At a little before 3am I put her to bed and crawl into my bed on the side where her cot is. And I “sleep” – with one eye open, holding her hand through the bars of her cot. Just in case.

There was one funny moment in our evening. My mum says to me – as we’re leaving – that I should have mentioned to the doctor that I was single. Because he was cute. And lovely. I suppose he was, but my radar wasn’t exactly in ‘find a cute doctor to date‘ mode. If only she’d mentioned this earlier in the evening, maybe I would have thought about it. Of course, I’m sure he’d be incredibly attracted to my vomit stained tights, dishevelled hair and the luggage I’m carrying under my eyes …