Until this week. Twice, in the space of three days, just for good measure.

My story starts on Tuesday afternoon. Frantically racing the clock to get my desired amount of work done before collecting my son from his little school, my phone cut in to the quiet of the house.

It was day-care. They casually asked if I’d come and collect my son now. Confused, I said of course, but could I just finish off my work? In my stressed mind I was thinking, “are they trying to get the numbers down?”

But I’d missed the point – they didn’t want to alarm me but Master H had had himself a nasty fall. So bad that he’d knocked himself out, turned blue at the lips, and had his eyes roll back into his head.

I’ll never forget the scene that greeted me as I arrived; there is nothing quite as confronting as seeing your child lying completely still, white as a ghost, surrounded by numerous concerned faces. He wasn’t talking or moving – two very out of character actions for he.

Although there were no obvious injuries I had to take him immediately to my family Doctor for a once over. That’s the thing about concussion – it is hard to see if it may be lurking undetected.

Which is why, days later, I was driving like a crazy woman BACK to my local medical centre.

Friday morning and all was fine – or so I thought. It had been a few days since the fall and we were out of the danger zone (in which I barely slept, checking my son every two hours that first night) but suddenly he began to moan. We were on our way to our hairdresser. She took one look at his pale little face, shivering uncontrollably yet burning hot to the touch, and gently suggested I needed to get back to the Doctor.

I thought my heart might explode through my chest on that normally short, but on this occasion interminably long drive. In the backseat was my white faced, extremely disorientated son, who looked like he might pass out at any moment. His eyes kept threatening to roll back into his head but I was too scared to let him sleep in case he lost consciousness. By this stage he couldn’t speak, only emit a low pained wail.

Of course the local car park, which is shared with the Surgery, was brimming with shoppers. I swore at every one who jagged a park before me and was seconds away from putting the window down and screeching, “help!” when I finally found one. I then dodged and weaved like an Olympic decathlete my way through the busy car park traffic, my wailing boy in my arms, before tearfully brandished my sick child towards the Medical receptionist for the second time in three days and begged to see someone straight away.

While my son proceeded to scream down the surgery, he was immediately checked over and confirmed it was not related to concussion (or meningococcal, such was his delirium and high temp). Finally, after two unsuccessful attempts to get him to take some medication he cried himself to sleep in my arms.