I think today will forever live in my memory as one of my most fearful. At around 11am, I received a call while in the midst of my daily toil at work that shook me so fast into action that I would not be surprised if my coworkers told me there were smoke trails left in my wake. I made the nearly hour-long trek home in about half that time, all the while panicked that I’d be too late. The administrator at the daycare Diego attends was who had called. Having taken his temperature three times after finding him listless, they confirmed he’d had a 107 degree temperature. I’m no medical expert, but I know that a temperature that high means an immediate trip to the ER and I nearly berated one of his teachers in a subsequent call made while tearing down the highway at 100 miles an hour. Of course it turned out he was ok, but for about half an hour, I honestly thought about what a temperature that high could have meant and what I would do if I ever lost the Diego I know and love. 107 could mean brain damage or worse. I swallowed that fright down, did what I had to do with the calming influence of Diego’s mom and then, after an emergency pediatrician visit and six retakes of his temperature revealing a 103 temp, I put the boy to sleep with my eyes full of tears. This was nothing but a drill, likely the same throat virus I had a week earlier. But it felt worse. It felt like my worst nightmare.
