This was the worst moment of my life, bar none.
So when I struggled to wake The Boy up from his afternoon nap today, I tried to tell myself not to panic. I failed. After a further ten minutes of failing to get him to wake up sufficiently enough to convince me that he was still just tired, I looked at my mum. She phoned the doctor back straight away and demanded that we saw the same doctor that we'd seen this morning.
He was lifeless; his arms hanging and me having to hold him upright. His lips were white, his skin deathly pale with huge purple shadows.
Carrying him into the surgery, the doctor was visibly surprised to see such a decline in the boisterous, polite, chatty toddler who he'd seen just six hours previously. The Boy was limp, clammy, pale, dazed with no energy. He looked over him, doing the checks (which thanks to reading various blog-posts over the past fortnight) I recognised as meningitus checks. He turned to me and said, "I'm seeing the same thing as you and I'd like you to go into the Children's Assessment Unit."
I almost crumbled to my knees there and then.
Coming back into the room two minutes later, he prepared and adminstered a shot of penicillin for The Boy and then made the phonecall warning them that we were on our way. We walked out, me carrying a floppy child and my husband rushing to get us into the car.
When we arrived at the CAU they were expecting us and assessed him quickly. The Boy had started to perk up a little, but looked so tiny sat in the middle of that adult bed clutching Oliver Monkey tightly. Big, hollow eyes with purple shadows stared at the nurse practitioner as she did the necessary checks and found he had gastritis and dehydration, hardly surprising as I'd been unable to get him to drink properly and he hadn't passed urine since 11am.
He was given some sandwiches to eat, which he wolfed down, and managed to drink 75ml of water. We were then discharged once he'd shown he could keep it down and had some colour back in his cheeks.
The Boy's sleeping in his cot now, and I have all my sense heightened to his needs. Will I sleep? Probably not. Have I cried? Slightly. The thought of my precious child limp and lifeless is too much to bear.