It’s not all the time, admittedly, but I like to think that when it comes to knowing how he’s feeling, I’m one of the most well-informed on the subject.
Working in the health industry, I know that some families are labelled Difficult. Within familes there are Difficult family members who make life Difficult for the health professionals involved in their loved one’s care. These are people who ask questions and take up time. They make numerous requests or even demand that things are done in a particular way.
Being a parent, I know that there are health professionals who know more than me in a particular field. They have studied, practiced and experienced. Their aim is to find answers and make sick people better. They keep you waiting, wear stethescopes, use medical jargon and print out information sheets about infant constipation.
Recently I fear I became a Difficult Parent. The anxious mum who worries excessively, asks way too many questions and lingers too long at the end of a consultation with an unconvinced look on her face. We were told it was constipation and sent home with instructions to purchase a bottle of poo softener. This tested me. My husband watched on, almost cringing as I questioned the ‘diagnosis’ and sought more answers. “He looks happy and energetic enough,” I was reassured by the health professional. “If it was something serious he wouldn’t be this chatty and active.”
And while I agreed that nothing life-threatening appeared to be going on (and was grateful for this), I knew that my brave and friendly boy was not at ease. He was in pain, pale and no where close to being his usual self. Being the parent and not the expert, I didn’t really know what else to say, other than “Okay, well I hope it’s just constipation that came about because his diet suffered when he had this ‘virus’ last week.” I didn’t know what else to ask or request, and was certainly not in a position to demand anything further.
He’s still not right and god dammit, I’m going to risk being that Difficult family member who comes back time and time again because, whilst I don’t profess to know it all or believe in a true motherly instinct, I know my son, and I won’t rest until I am satisfied that he is either back to full health, or on the way to being treated for whatever it is that is dragging him down. Sometimes, just sometimes, mummy knows best.
