The child’s fit of anger, all because his demands were not catered for, bordered on comical, his mother mused as she witnessed her son toss much loved toys across the room, toys that only moments before, had, in-between sobs and sticky mucus bubbles exploding from both the child’s nostrils, been passionately demanded (throws things asked for). Capricious and peevish nothing would appease Charlie Chamomilla, he was never satisfied.
Ears drums assaulted long enough, Charlie’s mother turned away from the spectacle of ugly behaviour and went into the bright kitchen, retrieved her son’s favourite plastic elephant feeding cup from the spotlessly clean kitchen cupboard and filled it with cold filtered water from the fridge. Charlie was a thirsty child. Noticing Charlie’s face cloth on the thick wooden butcher’s table in the middle of the spacious kitchen, she picked it up, soaked it under the cold stream of water from the tap, squeezed it out and returned to her cross, ugly, angry son, still in the throws of his performance.
As soon as Charlie spied his mother he became silent. His little body jerked with sobs he attempted to stifle. Charlie’s water logged eyes met hers. His mother smiled, stepped onto the plush blue Persian rug and walked towards her son. Two steps into her stride, all hell let loose, Charlie screamed like a Banshee (cried when approached or interfered with). His mother familiar with the pattern, ignored the bedlam, and scooped her son from the blueness into her arms. Charlie kicked savagely and stiffened his body. However, true to form when picked up and carried he soon quieted down (> carried), despite his aversion to being touched. Charlie’s mother offered her son the cold drink; he eagerly gulped down the liquid from the elephant’s trunk almost choking as involuntary sobs collided with the cold soothing liquid. She wiped his hot face with the cool cloth, and gently patted his chubby cheeks, one distinctly rosy red and hot the other pale and cool. Mercifully, Charlie was ameliorated with cold drinks and applications and soon became silent.
Quietly singing a lullaby and gently rocking her son (better when rocked) Catherine walked through the French doors onto the patio. It was a beautiful twilight, pleasantly warm, the warmth ameliorated Charlie along with being in the open air. He adored playing in the circular sand pit on the lush green lawn but he never ventured outside when the wind played its tune. He was prone to Middle Ear infections, and his hypersensitivity to pain made life a living hell for those around him. The pain drove him to despair, and he couldn’t bear to be looked at, let alone touched. Nothing would console him, in fact he became increasingly angry when consoled or when his tantrum, in full throttle, was interrupted. Many a weary mile was trod during these marathon tantrums
and experience dictated the only thing to do for Charlie on these horrific occasions was simply to leave him alone. Catherine believed that Charlie wanted to be alone as he would do everything in his power to get away from anyone who tried to comfort him. Secretly she was grateful for the reprieve.
Nine in the evening was a bad time for Charlie Chamomilla. 2100 hrs was in fact the exact time of his birth. Catherine Chamomilla remembered her labour all too well and not with fondness, it had been intense and extremely distressing. A possible contributing factor was her aggravation to coffee and alcohol. When Catherine’s waters broke unexpectedly two months before her due date, while she was at home alone in the evening watching her favourite tv show, to steady her nerves while waiting for her summoned husband to arrive home from his much loved weekly bridge club she poured a fare measure of brandy to her mug of coffee. And Catherine had still not associated drinking coffee with her extreme over sensitive demeanor. Driving to the hospital was stressful for both the soon to be parents and in the birthing room, Catherine bordered on hysterical convinced her baby did not want to be born as it was too early. The excruciating pains she experienced; pressed upwards as if the baby was clutching to her uterus The pains were spasmodic and caused rigidity of the o.s. uteri. Catherine thought she might die. And she informed all in the room that she would rather die than suffer and she demanded instant relief from her suffering. But it was too late for an epidural to numb the pain of childbirth as the baby’s head was crowning much to the amazement of her husband. Catherine was forgivably snappish and fault finding with her timid husband. Legs suspended from the cold, steel stirrups and bearing down for all her worth she demanded a divorce from him. In between contractions she lay back on the bed exhausted and yet she still mustered up the energy to groan and moan on account of every trifling offence which had happened a long time ago. She listed each and every one of her husband’s shortcomings for all present in the birthing room to hear. And it was obvious to all present that the lady giving birth dwelled on past disagreeable occurrences and had no consideration for the feelings of others and would enter into a dispute or quarrel with her target regardless. The midwife and nurse discussed the birth drama later over a cup of tea in the staff room and they agreed that that woman seemed to seek a cause for being peevish at everything, They giggled at how mad she had become with the pains and how she seemed to magnify the pain as if they were unendurable to her. She was excessively sensitive to pain, and had no qualms about letting everyone know. They were both in agreement that they felt sorry for her husband. But if truth be told her husband was used to and not shocked by his wife’s labour personality/character as the women he loved always became suddenly capricious, quarrelsome and obstinate before her menses, it was nothing new to him. They rarely shared a bed when she was menstruating as her restlessness drove her out of the their bed during her menses And for 7 months he had enjoyed cuddling up to his
wife in bed and he had been spared her monthly unpleasant behaviour. But he had to admit to himself and no one else that there in the birthing room his dear wife was making up for lost time. Catherine Chamomilla demanded he open all the windows in the room to satisfy her desire for fresh air. An unusual request considering it was the Winter Solstice and shockingly cold. Catherine was hot and thirsty during her labour pains. There was no wonder Charlie was sensitive and aggravated in cold, windy or damp weather especially, considering he was born in a fridge with gale force winds assaulting his bare arse as he suckled on his mothers breast. Oddly enough most of Charlie’s symptoms were aggravated by the warmth, and to be quite contrary, he also felt better from the warmth, there was no pleasing Charlie Chamomila.
Master Chamomilla thankfully settled after not too much rocking. Catherine tickled her son on the belly, lifted him high above her shoulders and sat him on her head. Charlie loved it and giggled his infectious giggle. He trumped loud and long and chuckled even louder in its aftermath. The heat enveloped Catherine’s head and a smell of rotten eggs assaulted her olfactory nerves. She bent him over her arm and Catherine stretched the elastic waist of Charlie’s check red and blue corduroy trousers investigating the stench for signs of pooh. Evidence witnessed, Catherine lay her son down on the changing table in the sea green, mosaic tiled en-suite. As she undressed Charlie she toyed and teased her son with little kisses. Charlie transformed from an ugly, cross, irritable, spiteful, moaning and whining child to a pleasant, happy child in the space of minutes. Catherine rarely punished Charlie for his notorious tantrums as she reasoned to herself and her husband that it was their sons way of expressing himself. Catherine pulled a funny screwed up face as she was confronted with a nappy full of diarrhoea - hot foul smelling corroding stools that resembled yellowish green chopped eggs. She cleaned her son, threw away the offending nappy liner, placed the stained nappy in the grey nappy bucket and put a clean toweling nappy on him. She lifted her son from the changing table and hugged him tightly.
Memories of Charlie’s convulsions were always quick to haunt her whenever she felt especially stressed from her son’s behaviour. Recollections of his little legs moving up and down and the grasping and reaching of his hands, and the way his little thumbs turned inward had filled her with horror and never had she felt so helpless in all her life, watching his mouth drawn from side to side his eyelids, lips and facial muscles twitch tormented her thoughts and his staring eyes had frightened the living daylights out of her. Catherine had kept a detailed diary of Charlie’s milestones and health and she had identified a pattern to the convulsions, they occurred sometimes after she had nursed him, when he was cutting his teeth (dentition), after Charlie was especially angry and when she the beloved mother had a fit of anger, the latter she admitted to not a soul. During those ghastly convulsive episodes sleep for her was a luxury as she watched over her son 24/7 and it disturbed her to see her small son weep in his sleep. Frightful memories cast aside; Charlie searched her face with his cherub lips for her mouth to give her a long sloppy kiss. His little mouth smelt putrid, it always did when he was teething and he was having a lot of problems cutting his molars. She let him kiss her lips, but refrained from inhaling and waited for him to pull away to do so. She never commented on the rotten smell of his breath, even in jest, as Charlie took offence easily and would feel insulted (delusion). And that would make life even more hellish for everyone.
CHAMOMILLA MATERIA MEDICA