Lily is sick. When she coughs, she sounds like a centenarian who's been smoking a variety of substances for thirty years. As parents know, it's heart rending to have your child sick because the hacking just never ends and keeps you up even if you close the bedroom door and stuff towels underneath and turn on Kenny G. You can still hear them wail above the sax.
Thus, we decided it was time to brave the Australian medical system. I'm sure Australia would agree with me here, but I use "system" loosely. Cartel could be more descriptive.
Our first step was cough medicine. If nothing else, we are logical and effective, just like swiss watches and the Jeb Bush campaign.
Too soon?
"Helour," the chemist clerk said. We've decided that, in Australian, this either means "Hello" or is the name of a satanic glamour magazine. Which seems like a pretty unexplored niche, in case there are any entrepreneurs among the five of you reading this. Shark Tank, anyone?
Back to reality - Amy explained that she needed some cough medicine for our six year-old. The clerk stared at her in a guarded way, as if Amy might be trying to pull one of those American schemes where teens purchase cough medicine to get high. In the clerk's defense, Amy has taken to using gang signs in an effort to fit in with the locals.
The clerk told Amy she would need to talk to "the chemist." Along came the chemist. "Helour."
Amy repeated her request and the chemist looked worried. In a country of no worries, when someone looks worried, you are completely screwed. "Six, eh? Oy, I wouldn't be comfortable giving you anything unless you'd been to the doctor."
Amy repeated that she was looking for cough medicine and not oxycontin and then pointed at the vast array of child cough medicines behind the counter (I'm serious about the vast - it wasn't a supply-demand thing. It's like they were taunting her). "In the states we just buy things like this over the counter."
"Right ..." the chemist said in a tone that said we've seen your presidential candidates. "We do things a little different over here."
"So I need a prescription?"
"No you could just tell us what the doctor said."
Amy's wasn't done. "Well ..." Amy said in the crafty tone she gets when she's trying to convince me to watch a John Cusack movie, "do you have any adult cough medicine?"
"Sure," the chemist said cheerfully. "Aisle 3. Lots of 'em." So Amy proceeded to purchase adult cough medicine that had dosages clearly labeled for children.
We asked our source (a fellow parent from school) why the ban on cough medicine and she told us "Oy. They don't like one of the ingredients they put it in." In America, we call this the "active ingredient."
