And then my Riddle Daughter became very ill. She had already experienced a febrile seizure once before, in our previous home. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever witnessed. Everything had seemed normal. I had laid her down in her little bed, and suddenly her eyes rolled back and her body went completely limp. It was as if she had died. Panic flooded through me and I screamed for help. Wordfather came running and took over while I called emergency services. The ambulance arrived quickly, and they told us it was a febrile seizure—but the shock stayed with me, deep in my bones.
And then it happened again. This time, in our dream house. I was alone with her, and once again I called emergency services immediately. She had another seizure, and this time I saw her lips turn blue. I was completely overwhelmed with panic by the time the ambulance arrived. The GP was also called and tried to calm me down, saying, “Easy now, mummy, it’s just a febrile seizure.” But something in me snapped. No—this time, no “easy now.” That fever was coming from somewhere, and I wanted her taken to the hospital immediately for proper examination. I demanded that they look at everything, that they leave nothing unchecked until we knew where it was coming from. The GP hesitated, but thankfully the ambulance staff listened. “We’re taking her with us,” they said. And that decision saved her.
At the hospital, it turned out she had a severe kidney infection. If we had waited, it could have caused permanent damage to her kidneys. The thought alone still sends a chill through me—how close we had come to something far worse. She had to stay in the hospital, and it brought all my own trauma rushing back. I tried not to let panic take over, but at the same time my Professor Son needed care as well. Wordfather stayed with her in the hospital, while I stayed home to look after him. What was remarkable about my Riddle Daughter was that, despite how seriously ill she should have been, she lit up the entire ward with her laughter and liveliness. She was a bright, shining presence—even in the darkest moments.
I knew I had to do something. My heart pounded in my chest as I made an appointment with the GP. This time, it would be different. This time, I was determined to let my voice be heard—without saying a single word. When it was finally my turn, time seemed to slow down. The silence in the waiting room suddenly felt deafening. With every step toward his office, my resolve grew stronger. I opened the door and walked in, my face set, my emotions tightly contained.
I said nothing.
Not a single word left my lips. Instead, I took the specialist’s letter out of my bag—the letter confirming that my daughter had indeed suffered from a severe kidney infection. Proof that my intuition had been right. With deliberate precision, I placed the letter on his desk, directly in front of him. Then I tapped it twice. A silent accusation. Our eyes met. Mine filled with unspoken anger, his uncertain, almost startled. I let the silence linger between us, heavy and undeniable, and without another word, I turned and walked out. The door closed softly behind me, but the echo of that moment stayed. All my hospital trauma came flooding back with full force.
My Riddle Daughter was now under close monitoring, and we had to return to the hospital regularly for check-ups. She would need to take antibiotics every day until she turned eighteen. The thought alone was frightening—putting that into her small body every single day—but it was necessary. Her urine was flowing back from her bladder into her kidneys because she lacked the valves that should have prevented it. Because of this, she had to undergo frequent X-rays.
The worst moments were when she had to urinate for those tests. She refused again and again, and I understood her completely—who would want that? One day, her paediatrician, who was pregnant at the time, made a suggestion that left me in shock. She proposed using a radioactive substance during the X-ray to make the process more visible. My God—what were we even talking about?
Wordfather and I obediently made the appointment, but when we arrived at the radiology department, we were told that such a procedure was never performed on young children—only on adults. I stood there, frozen, feeling anger rise up inside me. That cold, clinical attitude—we know better—as if a mother’s intuition meant nothing. I had already felt that something about this wasn’t right, and yet again I had allowed myself to be pulled into that medical machine.
At the next appointment, the paediatrician—now having given birth—apologised to us. Apparently, her own experience of motherhood had brought something human back into her perspective. As if that was what it took.
Fortunately, a year later, Riddle Daughter was able to undergo surgery. It was a unique procedure: small incisions would be made to function as valves. The idea was brilliant—far better than a lifetime of antibiotics.
And the most beautiful part of all? The operation was successful. Since then, she has never had any problems again. ❤️
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