This first appeared on LinkedIn.
Gurudongmar Lake, 17,800 feet from MSL. Sikkim, October 2016.
Today, my little one, who is this seemingly delicate not-yet-five-year-old wisp of a girl, had a blocked nose, sore throat, and high fever. Also, she was tired, sleepy, and a bit stressed given she just lost her beloved grandfather. The last week or so has been a hell of a time for our family. So, naturally, we were trying to be as understanding as possible as parents. She was allowed a lot of attention and we took great care to avoid giving her any medicine (and her paediatrician would be proud of us for it, I am sure!), but eventually, we realised that the Calpol syrup was inevitable.
She was crying and refused it. We had a standoff. Initially, I thought that she doesn’t know what’s good for her and since we do, it’d be perfectly reasonable to hold her and pour it down her throat, given how much pain she was in and how sure we were that the medicine would give her relief.
Then, we thought that maybe we should reason with her, given she is almost 5 and we’ve been training her on reasoning and argument for long. So, we sat down and had a “talk” about how this is the better option, as opposed to visiting an unknown doctor at night and probably being forced to take an injection, with the only other option of becoming progressively sicker and more miserable not being a realistic choice to make.
She vomited the first dose out straightaway. To be fair, it is indeed absolutely horrid to taste. So, the scene shifted to the bathroom sink, where she said she’d be more comfortable in case she had to vomit again. The medicine was brought in again. We were asked to stay at arm’s length because she wanted to do this herself. Then, with huge teardrops in her eyes, on the verge of shedding, she turned to me, balancing herself on top of the bright red plastic steps that she needs to use in order to reach the sink, and said:
Baba, I am scared.
I didn’t know what to say. I felt like hugging her and telling her that I have a solution. Unfortunately, I didn’t. So, I steeled myself and mouthed off the standard dialogue we have between us for situations such as these, “Fear is your friend, Kym.”, not believing it myself for an instant, but saying it anyway because there wasn’t much I could do.
Gravely, she nodded, picked up the plastic cup with the vile-tasting liquid, and addressing it, said
Hello friend.
She then gulped it in one shot, clamped her mouth shut with her tiny hand, visibly holding her vomit inside, and after a few (very long) seconds, turned to me, smiled a bright smile, and said
Baba, fear is my friend.
I picked her up and held her to my chest. And then, suddenly, someone started to cut onions in the bathroom.
I love you, Kym. You are my hero!
