Last Thursday, when I arrived home from work to see a toddler with a runny nose, red puffy eyes, a muffled voice that eeked out "Hi mommy", and a temperature of 101.4, my immediate thought was: strep. He has strep throat. I called in to work at that moment, and told Matt I would take both boys in to the doc in the morning, as Curtis had the beginnings of a cold. Well, Brock woke up and seemed slightly improved, and Curtis was still hardly even coughing, so, knowing how it works in a pediatrician's office, I thought, great. I am going to take them in and the doctor is going to be like, it's a virus, thanks for wasting my time, go home.
Well, Brock continued to have a fever through the weekend. He didn't want to eat much except for suckers, yogurt and pudding (hint hint, sore throat?) and also would periodically point at his tongue with a pouty face, I assumed he bit his tongue or it was sore from all those suckers (hint hint, sort throat?) Curtis slowly became worse as well. His appetite all but disappeared, he had projectile vomited a few times, and his coughing was increasing in frequency. So, needless to say, Sunday night, I called into work again, and first thing in the morning set up an appointment for the boys.
The diagnosis? Strep throat!! And it is just something viral for za cutkis. Ahh! Brock would have nearly been done with his antibiotics by this appointment, and would have had a funfilled weekend, instead of one of complete isolation (aka, let's see if I can find something in this house I haven't destroyed). If I had only followed my instincts.