Granny State: Could a mottling rash be meningitis?

It started when I caught the mother of all colds. “I don’t think I should come round,” I say to my daughter.

“But I need you,” she pleads.

I see her point. Two children under two is a challenge, especially now son-in-law’s paternity leave has ended. (“You’re kidding,” says Newish Husband when he first heard of it. “Two weeks? Statutory?”)

“I’m worried I might infect little George,” I say amid a sneezing bout.

“He’ll be fine,” daughter declares airily. “The healthy visitor says I’ll have immunity because of breastfeeding. Can you get here in seven minutes? I need to put Rose down for her nap and I can’t leave George on his own.”

Timing in parent world is crucial. I finally arrive in 20 minutes, despite pedaling like fury to make up for the work email I had to send first. By then, Rose is overtired and refuses to go down. I’m in the doghouse – especially when I “compensate” by sneaking her some chocolate buttons.

Everyone’s got a cold at the moment. But my little grandson’s chest is rattly...

“Didn’t you read that piece about grandparents harming grandchildren by giving them too many sweets?” says the boss, thrusting my grandson into my arms. “Can you change George’s nappy instead?”

Help! It’s here that I have to admit to something. Remember my pre-birth concerns that I might not be able to love number two as much as I adore Rose? Well, of course I do, but in a different way – as my aunt had warned. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly how or why, but there you go. Maybe it’s because he’s a boy. I can’t pretend to put lipstick on him (Rose gets really excited by this!). And I won’t be able to plait his hair. (Well, maybe I can attempt both, but not yet.)

“Mum!” rebukes my daughter as she returns to find me mid-nappy while trying not to breathe germs over the subject. “You put it down, not up.”

“Really?” I try to think back to her brothers: in my day, I’m sure it was the custom to place the male appendage in the ‘up’ direction. So I shoot off a quick Whatsapp to the Granny Mafia group.

Answers fly back. I’ve clearly struck a nerve here, but it’s a hung parliament. I decide to play safe and follow my daughter’s instructions.

Three days later, George gets the sniffles. I am consumed with guilt. “It’s not your fault,” says my daughter kindly. “Everyone’s got a cold at the moment.” But my little grandson’s chest is rattly. We take him to the surgery and are told not to worry. Ditto on the second visit. On the same day, just before closing time, my daughter’s maternal instinct tells her to take him again. Just in case.

About | Meningitis

“Mum,” says a little voice on my mobile. “They want me to take him to hospital to get him checked.”

My son-in-law is putting Rose to bed, so I go with her. A&E is packed with rugby players, but we get seen by the triage nurse after half an hour. By then, George is sleepy and even rattlier. He has a temperature and his heart rate is fast. We are sent, to our horror, to the resuscitation area for blood tests. Suddenly, he goes a horrible mottled colour. Each one of his tiny veins stands out.

“I don’t like this,” whimpers my daughter. I sense that the staff feel the same despite their calm efficient demeanour. He’s attached to a monitor which screams every few seconds. Mouth dry, I say my prayers. The mottling fades slightly.

He’s attached to a monitor which screams every few seconds. 'We may need to do a lumbar puncture,' says the paediatrician

“We may need to do a lumbar puncture,” says the paediatrician. No one says the ‘m’ word, but suddenly I realise the mottling might be a meningitis rash. She wants to wait until the blood tests come back first. The clock ticks, 10.15pm, 11.35pm… Texts are flying back and forth from my desperately worried son-in-law, who can’t leave Rose because of her separation anxiety during George’s birth.

Midnight. Two blood tests have come back negative. But the third needs doing again. An angel nurse stays late to squeeze blood out of George’s heel. Afterwards, I cradle him in my arms while my tear-streaked daughter goes to the loo. My heart is filled with so much love for him that I think it might break.

Then we wait.

Next week: Keeping the family afloat