That was my fear when, the day after our foray into picking deadly wild mushrooms, my daughter greeted me after school by throwing herself into my arms and saying “I don’t feel good.”
She was a bit feverish, and her stomach ached.
Of course my mind immediately went to all the news stories I had spent the morning reading (in a successful effort to avoid doing any real work). Headlines which screamed in bold 24pt Arial “WOMAN DIES LESS THAN 24 HOURS AFTER EATING DEATH CAP MUSHROOMS” “CAMPERS HOSPITALISED, 1 DEAD, AFTER PICKING WILD MUSHROOMS”.
I took her home and after furious googling, quickly determined she had none of the symptoms of mushroom poisoning, and called the national healthservice hotline anyway (That’s right, ya’ll- socialised healthcare IN DA HOUSE!), because momma don’t mess with no kidney failure.
They said she should go to the doctor. So I called the office and the nurse said to bring her in right away. So, I did. Then the nurse looked at her and felt her tummy and said to take her home, give her pain relief and water and bring her back in the morning. So I did.
And- do you know. She didn’t have mushroom poisoning at all. She had an upper respiratory tract infection. Phew. Thank god. I don’t have to feel guilty anymore.