Just before midnight on the eve of my wedding I stood, crying slightly while cradling my infant son, in a queue at A&E.
A nurse noticed and sidled up beside me, asking if I was ok. Biting back a tsunami of tears, I shook my head, before relaying fears that my mastitis had turned to sepsis. You see, I’d been here several times before and had foolishly been ignoring the signs all day, persuading myself paracetamol would knock the block on its head.
Without formally checking me in at reception, this angel swept me away to be seen by the first available doctor while my core temperature soared and my hands and feet felt freezing. By I had a bag of IV fluids pumping into my left arm, closely followed by intravenous antibiotics, while my ten-month-old drained the problematic mammary like a pro.
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