THE GIANT DIPPER

Dear Spike:

Up to 102. Down to 97. Up again and down once more. If we were to track your fever on a chart, I’ll bet it would look like a schematic for the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the Santa Cruz boardwalk.

Fevers, we’re told, are a pretty common malady for infants — particularly this time of year. And though your little body seemed so hot to the touch, anything less than 102 degrees generally is not considered severe. As such, we weren’t too worried until last night, when you woke every 20 minutes — screaming as though we’d been plucking out your eyebrows, hair by hair by hair.

When your fever dropped again today, your mother and I figured you’d pass out from sheer exhaustion, but you maintained the same tormented pace — 20 minutes of rest, 40 minutes of screaming, 20 minutes of rest — throughout the day.



The on-call doctor at our pediatric clinic thinks you probably have an ear infection, perhaps brought on by last week’s first airplane flight to California. He’s prescribed ibuprofen, olive oil drops, and a visit to Dr. Schriewer first thing tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, though, we’ve got to make it through tonight.

Without a doubt, these last three days have been the most miserable of your young life. And it’s been quite painful for your mother and I was well, as we’ve been able to do very little to ease your pain or soothe your cries.

I’m relieved to know that you’ll soon have forgotten all about this.

But I doubt we ever will.

I love you, Spike. Get well soon.

Love,
dad