OPINION

I was thinking the other day how my written contributions have changed over the 30-plus years I’ve been putting pen to paper — or should that be index fingers to keyboard — and sharing
the trials and tribulations of my daily life.

Back in the day I was younger, but still devilishly handsome — obviously — and it was easier to do stuff like, for example, bounce back from a big night out. I’m sure there are others out there who can recall pulling an “all-nighter” and then going straight to work. Ring any bells anyone?

Well, all that leads me nicely to the all-nighter Mrs P and I ended up pulling just last week.

You’ll forgive me if there is an “oldies” tinge to the tale, but it’s what life throws at you when you are at that stage where you suddenly realise you were supposed to have 20 good summers left and somehow the weatherman on the telly robbed you of the last one.

So, let’s begin.

One day last week Mrs P somehow hypnotised me and I found myself accompanying her to Briscoe’s where we ended up looking at coffee mugs, which have 30 per cent off and that we don’t actually need.

That’s when her cellphone rang.

On the other end, an hour away geographically, was Builder Boy the partner to our heavily pregnant Boomerang Child.

Long story short — it’s happening and we are needed quick smart to take care of a big-sister-to-be, aged 23 months, while the new arrival is coaxed from place of residence for the past nine months.

It would be fair to say the speedo on the car got a solid workout on the dash to our destination but we made it in time to farewell the expectant parents with best wishes etc. And then sat about entertaining wee Poppy until we heard some news.

As we waited, we sat on the floor and played games with a variety of stuffed animals, did jigsaw puzzles involving brightly coloured wooden shapes and sang every song the Wiggles ever put out on their telly show.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, Poppy started to cough.

Naturally, we kept an eye, and ear, on this cough as the evening progressed

Now I should point out here that Mrs P is a specialist nurse of many years, most particularly in the field of respiratory ailments. So, when she says something is not quite right, then believe me, something is not quite right.

From a layman’s point of view the speed of deterioration was quite startling. We got Poppy off to bed just as word came through from the hospital that labour was well and truly underway.

Within an hour, with Mrs P and I both well past our normal bedtimes, the panic button was well and truly pushed.

The wee cherub had awoken in some distress and no attempts by either of us could bring her any comfort. The coughing got so bad (frighteningly so I have to say) we assumed the worst — whooping cough — and called immediately for an ambulance.

I should quickly explain here we were in a town a little unfamiliar to us with no guarantee we would find the hospital quick enough. Add to all that the fact Mrs P is still nursing a back injury that has largely immobilised her for some weeks now, and you can see we needed more help. Thus the ambulance was deemed the best option.

Luckily, the ambos pulled into the driveway in pretty good time and did not muck about. As fast as you could say “over-stretched health system”, Poppy was carted off in the arms of Mrs P while Granddad locked up the house, got the proverbial bag sorted and followed soon after.

Then the real wait started.

Luckily, Poppy was seen reasonably quickly and it was decided whooping cough was most likely not the culprit. A better assessment could be made after she’d had some medicine.

It was fairly obvious the nurses were run off their feet so rather than have Poppy subjected to being held down and force fed the yucky stuff in a hurry — which appeared a distinct possibility to me, even accounting for the hysterical grandparent factor — Mrs P calmly offered to administer it and let them know when it was done.

Her offer was immediately accepted and the nurses raced off to deal with a veritable waiting list of patients who seemed to be arriving every five minutes aboard an ambulance. At one stage there were four patients in a line on gurneys waiting to be admitted, I kid you not. I’m told it’s a regular occurrence.

Anyway.

We got the medicine into the wee one just as word came through from the delivery suite above that Boomerang Child was still not quite there yet.

By 2am Poppy was still coughing sporadically but had recovered enough to want to walk her exhausted Grandad up and down her cubicle and wave to every ambulance person who came by — of which there were many.

By 3am a doctor reappeared, checked her oil, water and tyres and gave her the all clear to go home with a “keep an eye on it” instruction.

Blissfully unaware of the drama around her, Poppy fell asleep in the car on the way home and remained that way till the cough, a little better but still distressing, woke her — and us — at 6am. She’d had about three hours’ sleep and, it has to be said, was a little ratty next day.

By the time Mrs P and I climbed between the sheets absolutely knackered, it was somewhere around 4am.

We’d just climbed that hill to the full slumber slide down the other side when Builder Boy rang with the exciting news a little boy had been born and mum and baby were safe and well.

Naturally, it was pretty hard to go to sleep after that.

In fact, the next few days were a bit of a blur as we helped out on limited sleep in a house with a not-fully-fit toddler and a typically noisy newborn who came out of hospital with mum a few days later.

We stayed to help until the other grandparents, aunties and uncles arrived to do their bit but eventually, we made it back to our own, quiet little bit of Paradise.

And just to give you an example of how tired she is, I’d normally get Mrs P to run an eye over these words each week just in case I’ve divulged too many family secrets.

There’s no chance today. As I finish this off she’s sound asleep on the couch.

Like I said. It’s harder to bounce back from a big night out when you get to our age.