Garden virality

Things have changed. The fish tank is still there, but it's more of a terrarium now. The bucket is gone, but the stickers are all laid out in single rows on the bench, ready for one-touch selection. There are no cartoon creatures decorating the walls on this side of "the house." Just pictures of teens making healthy choices.

He looks a little out of place. The elephant in the room.

Someone calls his name and we are ushered through a door and back into the maze that is the office. Number 10.

His legs dangled from the exam table, the sanitary paper crinkling under the friction of his shifting weight. A shock of uncombed hair stretched in all directions as he pressed the edges of his mask against his cheeks to contain the body-shaking cough.

A man-child. 

The doctor knocked softly on the door before entering.

"How are you today? Been better, I bet. So tell me what's up?"

My son shrugged his shoulders and looked at me.

Our stories don't always match.

The way I see it: He had a cold, and now a lingering cough for a couple of weeks, mostly mild until just a few days ago when it started keeping him up all night, which made me worry about the possibility of pertusamonias and rotoviriosas, prompting this visit.

"We've tested for COVID; we've tried decongestants, expectorants, and suppressants; we've resuscitated his humidifier; we tested for COVID again, and again and again. Nothing."

The way he sees it: "I've been coughing since I was a baby."

It's a tag-team effort, but we manage to cobble enough agreement to give the doc a clearer picture of his situation.

It seems like a minor miracle of the Who's On First variety.

It's even hard to believe he's the same kid I first schlepped here, fast asleep in the car seat's removable "bucket," more than fifteen years ago.

Honestly, I couldn't remember the last time he'd needed a sick call. His whole little life, he had contracted nothing but garden variety viruses that, on occasion, had sprouted only minor secondary infections of the ears, head, or chest.

The doctor methodically got to work: Questions asked. Notes taken. Face places palpated. Breath sounds examined. More notes. A few more questions and, finally, a decision: "I think he's earned a round of antibiotics, can you swallow pills?"

"I remember ... I had a sinus infection when I was ten ... and you had to go back to get giant horse pills because I couldn't stand the taste of the pink liquid."

He thinks it was eons ago, while I have only a vague memory. It could have been five years ago. I could have been ten. 

We look to the doctor for a determination.

"Yep ... I see that right here," the doctor said, drumming an index finger on his chart. "That was back in 2016. Not much since. I don't think it's an allergy. It is possible that he might have the kind of anatomical plumbing that just doesn't drain completely.

The kid always astounds me with his pachyderm memory.