Worst-case scenario.

Rachel has been sick, feverish, and just plain whiny off and on for the past two weeks. She started out with an unexplained fever two weeks ago before we headed off to visit my family for a few days. She sustained a minor foot injury there, which prolonged the agony for another week, after which the fever picked up again where it left off at 102 while she complained of a sore throat. We had a brief respite before she woke up at 6:30 this morning with a tummyache. I had spent the entire night battling a migraine - super fun. I mostly ignored her claims, until she woke up only ten minutes into her afternoon nap, curled up in a ball and crying inconsolably. I gently pressed on her stomach to find out where it hurt and she flinched in pain when I hit the lower left hand side.

My first thought: it's appendicitis. It had to be. I spent a few minutes on the internet, plugging in symptoms to search for a diagnosis, thus fueling my assumptions. Appendicitis it was. I called the doctor, who told me to bring her in right away.

You see, Tim and I like to throw money at the doctor. A $10 copay, or, as in the case of x-raying Rachel's foot when she was still limping on it days after she took a spill, $100 is the price we like to pay for peace of mind. It sounds crazy, but when you have vivid memories of being stuck in Tokyo traffic on the way to the emergency room with a burst appendix (after being sent home from the doctor earlier that day), you would do anything to avoid putting your child through that kind of agony. I don't remember much else about being seven years old. Just that miserable car ride.

Needless to say, there's no appendicitis. But I'm not holding my breath. Because tomorrow when she wakes up with a rash, it will be typhoid. Just wait.