Nellie has been sick. For the first three days, never mind the fever and the stuffed-up nose, she buzzed around with her usual hummingbird energy, making Christmas tree decorations and memorizing her poésie for school. She was improving and we expected her back at school, but then a decline -- which meant we had to take her to the doctor, to get a note for school.
We just showed up at the door of the village doctor with Nellie, since we have no phone book. We were ushered in by the nurse, who brightened once we explained which house we live in -- we are part of the village and not some vacationing strangers nobody knows. The doctor's office, or cabinet, is part of his house, so the examining room is a lovely old room with plenty to look at while you worry whether you have enough medical vocabulary to manage: a fireplace, two immense carved armoires, one with a stuffed pheasant on top, an ancient parquet floor, a silver bowl with wax fruit, and my favorite -- a small cast iron Godin stove.
That appointment went well. But this morning, Nellie dropped -- her words -- into "the deepest depths of my misery". And no one would disagree, since she added a severe ear ache and throwing up to the fever and headache she already had. Back to the doctor we went.
How many seven year olds have thrown up on the main street of Villamblard? This one has. Several times.
Today we saw a woman, who checked Nellie for meningitis and appendicitis and who knows what else, and gave us a long list of médicaments including a liquid antibiotic you put right into the affected ear, and, uh, suppositories. She felt so bad we gave her every last one of the medicines, and she's much better, thanks.
The real reason for this blog post? I was trying to explain that her ear must really hurt because Nellie is usually quite tolerant of pain, but she had been crying and crying over that ear. "Elle pleut," I said. "She rains." Pleut, pleure -- so close, yet so far.
