The doctor does arrive alarmingly fast, and while I’m grateful they’re taking my son’s condition seriously, I’m terrified of what that might mean.
“I’m Dr. Conway,” he says, nodding to me. His attention turns to Ben, who’s resting in my arms. “And this must be Ben.” The doctor briefly glances over Ben’s chart, then draws a chair to us and examines my son.
Once he’s done, he leans back in his seat. “It looks like it’s meningitis,” he says. “It’s serious, but we can treat it. We’ll start your son on some penicillin and administer fluids. From there, we’ll wait and see, but he should be alright.”
I exhale, my head bowed over Ben.
He should be alright. I hold onto that.
After Dr. Conway leaves, a nurse leads me and Ben to a room with a crib. She sets up the IV and administers the antibiotic. The whole time I cry alongside my son. I’ve never felt smaller than I do now, helpless to do anything to save my son. Ben’s hoarse wails lance at me. They’re haunting reminders of the day I first found him, when he’d cried for so long he’d worn out his voice.
He’s going to be alright, I tell myself. He’s going to be alright.
I try not to think about the fact that Death is closing in on this city, or that the other horsemen want me to stop running. Every time I do, I can’t seem to catch my breath.
Instead I brush the short wisps of Ben’s hair back, and I sing him lullabies that waver on my lips, my sadness throwing my voice off-key.
An hour goes by, and nothing appears to change. My son is still crying off and on, and while his eyes don’t look so sunken and his lips appear less chapped, he still seems like he’s in pain.
Another hour passes and a nurse comes by. She checks my son’s IV, then his vitals, then leaves.
Another two hours pass, and still nothing much has changed, except that Ben’s breathing has gotten more rapid and his cries have tapered off with his exhaustion.
I stare out the window at the setting sun, dreading the coming night. Time feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about any of this.
The nurse returns, checking on my son once more. I want to ask her how long it will take for the antibiotics to start making a noticeable change. Or if there’s any way I can administer the rest of the medicine at home—or rather, on the road.
Before I can, however, she rushes off.
Only minutes later the woman returns, an unfamiliar doctor on her heels.
“Hi there, Ms. Gaumond,” the doctor says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m Dr. Patel.” Her eyes move to the crib. “And this is—” She glances down at his chart, “Ben.”
Dr. Patel crosses over to the crib Ben lays in. She pulls out a stethoscope and listens to my son’s heart, then checks his head and neck. The action causes Ben to start crying anew.
Exhaling a heavy breath, she turns from the crib to face me.
“What is it?” I say before she can get a word in. I swear she must be able to hear my heart pounding.
“We should be seeing some improvement by now. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.”
My heart seems to stop at those words.
“We’re going to continue to administer the penicillin to Ben,” Dr. Patel continues, “but so far I’m not seeing any evidence that it’s working.”
It’s not working.
“Is there anything else you can do?” I ask.
“Some cases of meningitis are bacterial, and others are viral,” she says. “Antibiotics won’t have any effect on viral meningitis. That could be what your son has. There is a chance, however, that this is bacterial meningitis, and if it is, then at this point we would give Ben more specialized antibiotics—if we had them.” The doctor sighs, rubbing her eyebrows wearily. “However, those are no longer readily available. We will send out a request to see if any of the neighboring hospitals and pharmacies have any on hand, but by then …” She trails off, her meaning clear.
By then Ben will have either beaten this thing, or he won’t have.
I feel like someone has stolen the breath from my lungs.
“The other doctor said he’d be okay,” I whisper.
Dr. Patel nods. “He very well could be. Children fight off infections as serious as this one all the time. He’s receiving the best care we can give him. All we need to do now is let his body do the rest.”
The doctor turns to the door, and I want to grab her hand, I want to beg her not to go, I want to force her to stay here until she heals my son.