Tales of the Sisters: Mad Cow Disease

Many years ago, in the dim and blurred age before Michael came along to complete the family, I had weekends where I dealt with my two daughters as a single dad.

My ex-wife and I had recently separated and were occupying either side of a duplex. We called it our "half way house." It was a reasonable solution to keeping the kids together with both parents until we could figure out a more suitable residence arrangement.

It was a balmy Sunday morning, like so many others. The girls woke up conveniently too late for church, and my younger daughter had to get to a birthday party for a friend.

My older daughter, "B", whined that she didn't feel good, had a headache and was really cold. She declined the eggs, sausage and potatoes that I'd made and had only dry toast.

While her sister "L" and I dined on a hearty breakfast, B lay on the couch munching toast, watching television and absent-mindedly playing with some toys and things that were left on the coffee table.

Once L had finished breakfast and helped me clear the table I decided to run a bath for B, believing the warm water would help her feel better. That and she was due for a good scrub. I came into the living room and told her it was time for a bath.

"Is the pimple getting worse, daddy?" she asked me. She'd had a slight blemish on her forehead since the day before and was greatly concerned by it. I took a look, and saw a very large dark purplish splotch on her forehead, like a bruise.

"Jeez," I thought. "What the heck is that?" I asked her to come into the light so I could see it better.

In the sunlight beaming into the kitchen, I saw that the large spot was very much a bruise, and it was circular. Then I saw another one on her temple. And another on her cheek.

Instantly I started to panic. This was during the time that so many kids were contracting the bacterial disease called Meningiococcal, which was characterized by the sudden appearance of bruises all over, chills, nausea, headache and the like and was nearly always reported to be fatal.

Only I couldn't think of what it was called at the time.

"B! Did you hit yourself? Did you run into something? How did you get these bruises?" I asked her, rapid-fire.

"I dunno! I didn't hit myself!"

I ran out the back and yelled into my ex-wife's part of the duplex for her to come over quickly.

"Come quick! I think B has mad cow disease or whatever that thing is called!"

She came jamming over and examined B herself. She checked B out and asked the same questions. B was starting to cry now, getting caught up in the growing mass panic.

My ex called the doctor's office to consult the on-call advice nurse. I dragged my daughter upstairs for the bath, hoping it would somehow make things better, or at least calm us all down a little.

All the while my heart sank lower and lower while my brain went into low orbit thinking about how I might lose my precious little daughter to some strange new disease.

L tagged along, asking questions in her four-year-old style, questions that I am ignoring completely. I continue to press B for an explanation.

"Are you sure you didn't hit yourself?"

"No, daddy, I didn't."

"Did you press on that pimple or something?"

"I squeezed it a little but not hard," she said.

Then in the back of my mind, a little voice said "it looks like a hickey."

That train of thought continued on... suction... vacuum... circle... forehead... suction cup! Like the one that was on the coffee table! Like the one she was playing with just a little while ago!

"Honey, did you stick that suction cup on your forehead?" I asked, hopefully.

She gave me a pitiful look, and started to cry. "Yes!"

"Yeargh! B, you little..." I said, angry and completely relieved at the same time.

I quickly ran down the stairs and out the door around to the other side. X was still on the phone with the nurse.

"Suction cup! False alarm!"

She looked up at me, then her expression changed to one of exasperation. "Never mind," she told the nurse, and concluded the conversation.

We were so relieved and elated that it turned out to be nothing but a goofy six-year-old's antics, we had to laugh. And take a picture that we could keep for blackmail later on.