I had gone to bed that night hoping for a restful sleep. It was a Friday night which meant no drop off the following morning. My children all go to different schools and the toil of school runs sometimes wears me out. At around 2 AM, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. It was my daughter. “Umm, I don’t feel well. Can you take me to the hospital or call the doctors?”, she said.

A stream of light from the corridor followed her as she walked through the darkness of my room. My room was in total darkness. I like my room immersed in darkness for a deep healthy sleep. As she walked in, I asked her to switch the light on. With the light on, I saw a shivering young lady as pale as day and I watched as she struggled to explain how she felt. ” My chest hurts and I can’t breathe well. It hurts when I breathe” The sleepiness in me vanished and nerves in my brain connected in a multifaceted version. Indeed, the strange stage of parenting is in full swing.

Memories of the past long years resurfaced. She was 2. I had gone to carry out my routine check when I discovered my toddler was struggling to breathe. She lay on her bed with her eyes wide filled with tears. Distressed and wheezing heavily.

To be honest, I can’t remember the conversation I had with the operator over the phone, but I remember the journey to the hospital and the drama around the diagnosis. We returned home the following day with asthma inhaler pumps and lists of what to do, what not do to and what to watch out for.

Years After The Diagnosis

From the diagnosis to bolt of other infections, we survived. Consequently, my girl grew to know the symptoms and was able to manage the condition. It was not a surprise when she was declared asthma-free around the age of 15. She outgrown Asthma according to her doctor and the bolt of chest and throat infections subsided. We no longer need to carry asthma inhaler pumps everywhere we go. As part of the precaution, we kept inhaler pumps at home for occasional use after vigorous activities or when she catches a cold. She had crossed the danger zone and survived.

You can guess my horror when this 17-year-old girl dragged herself into my room barely able to breathe. Flashes of the journey to the hospital reappeared and my fear resurfaced. What made it worse was the fact that she went to bed healthy. Hours before, she had gone to the local market to source for the cake ingredients she intended to bake on Saturday morning.

The emergency asthma inhaler pump came in handy, but it didn’t stop the palpitation and shivering. I ran downstairs to prepare a hot water bottle to calm her shivers. Running back upstairs, I slapped a generous amount of my homemade vapour on her chest and massaged it in. I could feel the minty flavour evaporating as I covered her up. Sitting beside her, I took my phone and dialled the out-of-hour service number; from there, things got quite interesting.

The Service And Help That Followed

The voice on the other side of the phone asked what the problem was after the initial formalities. I went on to explain the reason for the call. She paused a bit then asked; “Mum, Can you pass the phone to your daughter?”. I looked at my daughter who looked downcasted from the discomfort she was in. I then put the phone on speaker and passed it to her.

The questions thrown at her had me breathing hard. These were the questions for a mother to answer; not a child. Then, I heard, “Do you think you might be pregnant?”, I looked at my daughter who calmly said; “No”, in her breathlessness.

After the call, we were told to go to the nearest Accident and Emergency Department. The ambulance service was experiencing a surge in calls at the time and it was important for me to get her to the hospital within the next half hour. We left home and arrived at the emergency department around 3 AM.

I had my heart in my mouth throughout the journey to the hospital. It took about 15 minutes, however, driving in such an ungodly hour wasn’t my thing. I could see the map of my grip on the steering wheel.

The Test And The Samples

At the hospital, the questioning flowed. The symptoms, the time it started, history and what ensued. I tried explaining what I felt might be wrong but the questions were quickly passed on to my daughter. What I found strange was how she was treated. To them, she ceased to be the child I view through my clouded lens. A full-blown woman. All attention was on her. I wasn’t the one to seek unnecessary attention, but when my children were in the picture I liked to be asked. I like people to listen to my views, my parenting experiences and what I know about the ailment.

Amidst the tests, x-rays and blood samples, I told one of the doctors assigned to her that it looked as if she was anaemic, instinctively. He looked me in the eyes and said; “No, I don’t think so. She has a history of asthma. I don’t think so Mum”. With a tone of certainty and arrogance.

The Clarity

Each stage was different, but I could tell I wasn’t wanted at any stage. At one point, a nurse said, “Mum, can you let her answer the questions, please?”. From the diagnosis to the treatment, I sat beside her nodding in agreement. The diagnosis was anaemia after all. The telltales were apparent, but it took tens of tests, analysis, ECG, X-rays and MRI to find the solution. I wasn’t against any of these. They were an integral part of the diagnosis.

At a point, I felt lost. Is this the point where I need to back down as a mother? At what point does inclusive parenting stop? Do I need to keep muted when I know so much about the humans I have raised for over a decade plus?

This pattern of sectioning didn’t just start at the hospital that early morning. My first observation was when my girl turned 16. The National Insurance Number letter was addressed to her only by her name. Not the usual ‘Parent/Guadian of“. A national insurance number is unique to an individual in the United Kingdom. Besides, it is used throughout someone’s life to ensure national insurance contributions and that taxes are accurately recorded. Shouldn’t I know of this? Furthermore, our family doctor now contacts her directly boycotting me.

I wasn’t fussy when the optician made her sign the document (authorising her treatment ) I used to sign. They required her signature, not mine. I find this stage of parenting strange. And as we warm up to my child’s 18th year I wonder what else to expect. To say I am struggling to adapt is an understatement!

Each of you is a shepherd and each of you is responsible for his flock…

Prophet Muhammed (SAW)