As a first-time parent there is a whole series of “firsts” – first time the babe rolls over, his first bottle, first time he crawls, first haircut, first steps, first words, an on and on. And then there’s the first visit to the emergency room, maybe not one of the best ones, maybe not one that you capture on video, but certainly one that will stick in your head.

After recovering from his couple of sick days last week, Z seemed fine and dandy over the weekend and was unceremoniously chucked back into kiddie jail on Monday. Not for long, however as Dr. O’C got the call yesterday from day care that Z was running a fever of 40°C (104ºF) and raced from work to day care to the nearest emergency room. I raced, by bus, from work to the hospital. Nothing moves slower than a city bus when you’re on it and in a hurry to get somewhere.

Everything’s fine. Z has a case of tonsillitis and is on new antibiotics and ibuprofen and paracetamol for the fever. But that visceral sense of panic and powerlessness when you fear that your child is in danger is not a pleasant one. I fear that it is something that, with a young boy in the house, I’ll be dealing with on more than one occasion. First trip to the E.R. – probably not the last.

My first impression of the Australian health care system is that it pales in comparison to Britain’s NHS, but I’m not completely objective. Our wait was longer than I thought it should have been, but once we were seen by a doc, everything was fine. But it is better than the American system – when we walked out a few hours later we didn’t owe a cent for the treatment, medicine or even the cup of tea they brought for me.

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