Mark Steyn made me think about my son’s leg, today. Worse yet, he made me think about my son’s leg and feel a little silly, almost ashamed at the lack of good sense I displayed just the other day, regarding what turned out to be a minor infection.
Two nights ago, as I was getting kids ready for bed my younger son came to me with a complaint about what appeared, at first blush, to be a bug bite on his leg. As I was preparing to administer Calamine lotion and ferry him off to bed I noticed it wasn’t a bite at all, but was actually a very small scrape that had become very badly inflamed with infection. I once had a very bad infection in my hand and remember the flaming red line inching it’s way up my arm and the remark from the nurse that I was very lucky I came when I did, to get it lanced. Looking at my son’s leg, I worried that the actual wound was far too small to offer an effective opening to let the infection out and I was unprepared to attempt lancing it myself. I was also very conscious of the fact that if we left it be for the night and it turned out to be significantly worse by morning, Mikey would have to cart him and 5 other kids into the emergency room himself, at prime time. Not a fate I would subject my worst enemy to.
So, off to the emergency room we went, at 10:00 that night. The logic was sound (in a masticated socialized Canadiana kind of way) – The Georgetown hospital, so late on a Monday night, would likely not be busy and my paranoid mommy instincts would be assuaged under the capable scalpel of the on-call doctor.
It was not to be. Upon arrival, I saw the line for triage in the waiting room was a half dozen souls deep and the chairs densely populated. I imagined myself, along with my very tired 10-year-old and his older brother (who insisted on tagging along) still sucking up space in the waiting room at 3am, and me having to return to work the next day.
Ok Goober (that’s his nickname – ya, I know)…back to the car and a 20 minute drive to Brampton Civic, to see if we might fare a little better.
What foolishness. Of course it was packed, too.
I was suddenly left with the dilemma of having to choose between an excruciating wait for a treatment that I wasn’t even sure was an emergency, or taking the chance with treating it myself and hoping for the best.
So, I made a stop at the drug store for bandages and antiseptic cream, and returned home with a profound sense of futility at the waste of time and parking fees spent trying to get my son treatment.
Now I feel stupid. And worse yet, I feel stupid for some very good reasons.
I have always expounded on the virtues of self-reliance and castigated those who answer the clarion call to consign their fate to big nanny. Yet here I was, wringing my hands over how to treat a simple infection that, after 2 days of soaking and careful ministrations, has cleared up quite nicely – without carrying the hefty price tag of an emergency room visit.
But how easily I was sucked in. How quickly my instincts led me to assume the best course of action was to drag my boy out into the middle of the night, and spend hours languishing in a room full of sick strangers.
Mark Steyn says that socialized medicine "alters the relationship between the citizen and the state" and he's absolutely right. And me -- the neocon hardass that I have always prided myself on being -- I am solid proof of how easily that alteration is affected. I looked at this festering wound and doubted that I had the ability to handle it effectively. I chickend out at first, because I thought a trip to emergency would be easier than trying to figure out how to clean it out and clear it up.
Stupid. And lazy.
That is what socialized medicine makes you.
When I first looked at my son's leg, I was remembering an episode of Little House on the Prairie, where the mother, Caroline, got an infection on her leg that nearly killed her. In the desperate blur of fevered infection, she heated up a kitchen knife and cut out the infected tissue until she collapsed and nearly died. It was only tv, I know, but I was afraid of the truth behind the drama -- that it really could get that bad. I was anxious to spare my little boy from similar suffering.
What I should have been remembering from this long lost piece of sentimental theatre, instead of the fear and suffering, was the self-reliance and strength of survival instinct that led this woman alone to take such a drastic measure to save her own life.
But nanny rocks the cradle so gently, the sleep creeps up on you so slowly, it takes a cold glass of Steyn to the face, to bring a simple soul like me to my senses.
I will have to be more diligent. So should you.