Health and wellbeing, Writing


The siren screamed. He looked up in its direction, and saw the ambulance speeding down the street, lights flashing. Pedestrians stopped to watch. Satisfied that help was very near, he went back inside.

His daughter was on the floor, still. At eight years old, he forgot sometimes that she was only small, still a young child. She was growing up so quickly, a cliche he knew, but she was. She could roll her eyes so big he thought that she must glimpse her brain. She sometimes used an exasperated tone with him that made him fear what the teens years would be like. This brought tears to his eyes now, would she even make it to her teens? He looked at her, through his sobs. Her face was red, puffed into a shape that was nothing like her. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was short, laboured.

The ambos walked in. ‘What have we got here?’ one of them asked him.

‘I didn’t see what happened. She came looking for me, calling through coughs. I found her like this,’ he responded.

The ambos set themselves to work on his daughter. He stood by, watching, waiting, worrying. After about five minutes, the ambos stood to address him.

‘We’re going to take her to hospital, just for observation. She’s starting to come to right now. We think it’s an allergic reaction.’


Photo by Zhen Hu on Unsplash


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