Three Kids and an…Italian Doctor (a Tale of Traveling with Sick Kids)

The moment our pediatrician saw the bottle, her eyes widened. “Just throw it away” she hastily replied as she swept her hand through the air. “I have no idea what that is, but you shouldn’t keep it,” she scolded.

It had been hot in Italy that summer, but I can’t say we didn’t expect it. In fact, we had planned for it. It’s sort of what you have to do when you’re the proud mother of a child who is basically a tiny, squishy, sweaty oven. On a good day.

Anyway, I had spent days researching and locating baby-safe sunscreen that didn’t leave a thick layer of butter on her skin. Sunscreen that would let those little pores breathe in and out. I found an easy-to-carry and easy-to-push umbrella stroller that had no sides to trap in added heat and had an extended sun canopy (not too mention the ability to handle cobbled streets). I bought fans and packed extra hand towels to cool off in bathroom sinks and then swipe across her throughout the day. I was prepared. Perfectly.

So, when we landed in Venice it was no surprise that as soon as we got off the water taxi and the air stilled, our biggest (and at the time, only) little broke out into a hair-drenching sweat. Our 14 month old now resembled a small, chubby man who had just eaten his way through a pack of hot peppers. And this was sort of her look when she wasn’t under the breeze of a fan or the lick of a cool cloth. I mean even, or rather especially, when she was bound to my body in the carrier, I made extended stops in front of the swamp coolers in museums or the giant fans perched high in the ceiling corners. (And yes, I researched carriers too for a performance carrier that was breathable, and I lined an open, cloth cotton diaper (don’t worry, never used!) between our bodies to help control the sweat that her burning little body would produce if her chubby red cheeks were lying on me skin to skin.)

And you know what? It wasn’t bad. She was happy, regardless of the amount of sweat surrounding her, and she certainly was enjoying herself. I mean, there was pasta and gelato, and we were traveling with friends, so her little buddy was there with her to share in her cheerio and veggie stick feasts. We were fortunate in that she was slow to crawl, so she was content to peer at the world from the comfort of her stroller rather than try to challenge the fates and canals of Venice. Beyond the drudgery of hoisting a stroller over a beautiful canal bridge now and again, everything was smooth sailing.

After Venice we took the train to Florence and found a lovely suite tucked in a tower in a wonderful hotel (it had an amazing free breakfast buffet, which to this day is how my biggest little judges the worth of a hotel). Here we were treated to tea in our room and cute little set ups in the little’s crib that she found wildly entertaining (ok, that was probably more me that found them so, but still…). There was absolutely nothing to complain about in this hotel. Grand. On the water. Rooftop bar. Beautiful rooms. A closet large enough to be turned into my biggest little’s own bedroom. Glorious.

Except it wasn’t. At least not always. We’d walk in from the heat, which was much thicker in Florence than it had been in Venice, and be blasted with waves upon waves of frigid air. Coming into that slate-grey tower room, after turning the temperature higher, we’d sink into the couches, our arms tucked behind our backs, hiding our bare skin from the arctic blast. And the sweat would dry in an instant and my little’s arms would pucker with goose bumps. Every day. Each time we came back, it was to icy temperatures.

One evening, traipsing through the heavy late afternoon heat, clean and refreshed from showers and baths, we made our way slowly to the restaurant we had carefully selected. Seated with our party of seven, we started thumbing through menus, sipping red wine, and taking turns entertaining the two children, which, with five adults, was supposed to be pretty simple. But it wasn’t. Our little got her grumble on, and she grumbled and growled. She was restless and rosy. And then I felt her. She wasn’t sweating. But she was roasting. Burning even. And her pale eyes paled even more. So I left with the little and we found our way back through the sizzling Florence streets to the grey hotel room, where I turned down the air conditioner, took her temperature, gave her medicine, and put her in her bed.

It was then I knew: we were official one of those people. You know, the people who are traveling with sick kids.

After what felt like hours, but was more like a single hour, my husband returned to the room I was holed up in with a box of food that I quickly devoured. And then three long days and once missed trip to Cinque Terre later, we were on a train to Rome. We were running out of medicine to help reduce the little’s fever, she still didn’t have a bead of sweat upon her skin, breakfast sausage was the only food she felt compelled to eat (long story, but let’s just say the kid is, and always was, a big supporter of carnivores), and we vowed to seek out a doctor when we reached the concierge.

In the hotel room the doctor motioned for me to get my guidebooks out, and I quickly realized this is how we were going to speak. I would look up words in the back of Frommer’s and he’d try to find a suitable response in Lonely Planet. As we slowly conversed, we managed to all conclude that the in and out of the blistering heat and the bone-numbing cold pushed my little’s immune system to the edge. So he prescribed some medicine and a Nose Frieda to bring her back. (Yes I said Nose Frieda. And yes, it is beyond disgusting when you see it on paper. But the things is, when that little bundle of chub is sick, nothing is too grotesque. And I still have it. And I’d use it again if I had to.)

After the magic medicine arrived at the hotel, we administered it, carefully, even though we had no idea what the medicine was or exactly why the prescription was needed (the guidebooks only had so many phrases to work with). Two doses later, my little broke out in a sweat. A fever-breaking, toxin-pushing sweat. And the next day she hit up the Vatican, took a dip in the resort pool, slurped gelato in a cobbled-stone corner, and never looked back.

When we got back home to the USA, our daughter was scheduled for a regular check up, to which I brought our Italian doctor’s magical elixir. The pediatrician’s shock was palpable. As a first time mom, I felt a bit ashamed because of the degree to which she was alarmed. I questioned my ability as a mother. What had I missed? Had I put my daughter at risk with giving her drugs I didn’t know and understand? Should we have waited it out? Was I careless? 

In the end, I did toss it. But I did it because I’d do that with any medicine we no longer need, not because it didn’t fit into the parameters of what it is I’ve known. The medicine worked. That is what I do know, and that is what is important. She needed it, and this doctor knew that.

The thing is, at some point, when we travel, we have to trust some people along the way. I had to trust a concierge to find a pediatrician. I had to trust a pediatrician that I struggled to communicate with. I had to trust a pharmacist I’d never lay eyes on. Now, I’m not saying that I’d have complete faith in every situation, I’m certainly not naive, but I also believe strongly in the fundamental good of people. And this traveling thing we do? It only serves to reaffirm that idea even more, for myself and for my littles. We travel so we don’t become afraid, suspicious, apathetic. We travel so we can believe the doctor, no matter what language he speaks.

Have you been traveling with sick kids? How did it change how you traveled? Have any tips? We’d love to hear them; share them below!