Fever? What fever?
There are ways to avoid
nasty-tasting medicines
By Jeanne Moseley
Sometimes as a child when I'd get really sick, Dr. West
would drop by our house on Pensacola Street to check on me. I remember
rolling over in bed so he could give me a shot and then Mother would walk
him to the door. What followed were typically doses of a terrible tasting
yellow medicine that I liked about as much as I did the shot.
There were plenty of contagious diseases in my day, with few
effective treatments, so no symptoms were ever ignored in our house.
Mother had a rule about calling the doctor. If we didn't have fever, we
were home safe; however, any sign of a temperature signaled that a call to
Dr. West was soon to follow.
One day I remember Mother went to the
clothesline saying, "When I come back in, we'll see if you have any
fever." I don't think she'd cleared the back step before I jumped into a
cold tub of water. That, followed by a trip to the icebox, usually did the
trick. At least for an hour or so.
If there was such a thing as a
pediatrician back then, we'd never heard of them. Our doctor took care of
everyone, and as for special treatment, there was no such thing. I think
the grumpier and meaner they were, the better doctor we thought them to
be.
No doubt, all of this probably caused me to cry a lot even
when I was old enough to "know better" but after all, I was the baby in
the family and with that distinction came certain privileges.
Daddy was a softhearted soul who always brought home a present to
help ease my discomfort and help keep me entertained. He'd often appear at
my bedroom door with a paint-by-number set or a Mr. Potato Head ensemble.
My Aunt Ruth and Uncle Eddie still laugh when they remember
chasing me around the house trying to persuade me to take my medication,
and tell how it took both of them to bring me down! I think Mother decided
to forgo the yellow medicine after that.
Through it all, though,
my Mother was always there with whatever I needed. She was an expert at
alcohol rubdowns and could make any can of Campbell's soup taste homemade.
And thanks to her fine training, I always keep a package of saltine
crackers and a can of 7-UP in the pantry for that occasional upset
stomach.
In our house on Pensacola Street, it was always Mother
who knew best.
There were plenty of contagious diseases in my day, with few effective treatments, so no symptoms were ever ignored in our house. Mother had a rule about calling the doctor. If we didn't have fever, we were home safe; however, any sign of a temperature signaled that a call to Dr. West was soon to follow.
One day I remember Mother went to the clothesline saying, "When I come back in, we'll see if you have any fever." I don't think she'd cleared the back step before I jumped into a cold tub of water. That, followed by a trip to the icebox, usually did the trick. At least for an hour or so.
If there was such a thing as a pediatrician back then, we'd never heard of them. Our doctor took care of everyone, and as for special treatment, there was no such thing. I think the grumpier and meaner they were, the better doctor we thought them to be.
No doubt, all of this probably caused me to cry a lot even when I was old enough to "know better" but after all, I was the baby in the family and with that distinction came certain privileges.
Daddy was a softhearted soul who always brought home a present to help ease my discomfort and help keep me entertained. He'd often appear at my bedroom door with a paint-by-number set or a Mr. Potato Head ensemble.
My Aunt Ruth and Uncle Eddie still laugh when they remember chasing me around the house trying to persuade me to take my medication, and tell how it took both of them to bring me down! I think Mother decided to forgo the yellow medicine after that.
Through it all, though, my Mother was always there with whatever I needed. She was an expert at alcohol rubdowns and could make any can of Campbell's soup taste homemade. And thanks to her fine training, I always keep a package of saltine crackers and a can of 7-UP in the pantry for that occasional upset stomach.
In our house on Pensacola Street, it was always Mother who knew best.
Copyright ©2001 Jeanne Moseley