My grandma had one of those cots I’d never seen before and haven’t ever seen since. Maybe left over from World War II? Except it seemed made for granddaughters. Just my size. White canvas with wooden fold-out legs. Grandma made the most comfortable bed ever. With a thin pink flannel blanket flanked by a puffy pad underneath me and a thick lead-apron-weighted wool blanket on top. What warmth! What rapture! It was almost worth being sick for.
A far cry from the nurse’s office. But even now that seems quaint to the point that I might like a second peek. An entire infirmary just for kids. With apothecary jars and old-fashioned mercury-laden thermometers. A small bed like my grandma’s but not a cot. Colder sheets, more sterile. A temporary holding area, healing would not happen here. This was a place better than the classroom but inferior to a home. A place to still be brave but where you could let your guard down a little better than in the classroom. I don’t know that schools have entire nurse’s offices quite like these any more. It’s been awhile. How would I know?
Most of the time that cocoon arrangement at my grandma’s was reserved for sleep-overs. She lived half an hour away and it was easier for my dad to come get us if we felt sick, but sometimes she was our savior. There was nothing like seeing your grown-up, familiar and safe, at school. Just for you. A rescuer, your life-line. Knowing you were just minutes away from not having to be strong and brave any more. You would be able to let your sickest self show soon. And it would get Better. He’d make us a bed on the cutting table of his upholstery shop. And soup from those little packets. He stood sentinel as he continued to cover chairs and couches while we rested and recuperated to the din of his sewing machine.
As comforting as those memories are, it is so much more rewarding to be on the grown up side when someone needs convalesing. That’s a truism for life, so much more gratifying to give than receive. There is no parental task quite as nurturing as tending to an invalid. The time from the school’s phone call until you can get to your ailing child seems to play out in slow motion. You can hardly drive fast enough. I remember once being in the temple and coming out to voice messages from the school saying Bronwyn (9) was sick. How regretful that I hadn’t been there for her! But how was I to know? Our kids call maybe once a year for sickness; it just doesn’t happen to be our trial. But when the call comes, I long to swoop up my new patient and am ever so relieved when I finally pull into the parking lot. (But being in the school office kind of makes me feel like a little kid again. Even though I'm there all the time. It’s still weird to be this old. To be the grown-up. I know, I really need to just get over it.) Maybe it’s especially because it could never be my mom who'd come when we were sick (she worked in a bank and it made more sense for my dad or grandma to come), but I can’t help but feel overwhelmingly grateful to be the one to pick up my ailing children.
Our ten year-old hadn’t been quite himself one morning earlier this spring. Quieter. Suspiciously quieter. With breaks to rest on the couch before school. But only intermittently. So we sent him to school, knowing I would be just across the hall in the library if he needed to go home. I checked on him occasionally, communicating through sign language, asking how he was. At some point I needed to leave. I had told a friend I’d go visit her, but I would be just around the corner from school if he needed me. As these things go, I was there maybe half an hour before I recognized the school number on my phone. I hated to leave my friend, but I was also thrilled that I was available, that it was so effortless for me to pick up my son, that I’d be right there for him in just under three minutes. Trust me, I realize what a luxury it is.
You know how it is when you finally get home, you just want to be tucked in nice cool sheets, the perfect blend of warmth and refreshment. I darkened the room, got water, and left him to rest. I tried to think of what to feed an ailing child. White bread I’ve heard. We never really have that. But we do almost always have applesauce. And bananas. I wish I’d thought to stock up on those little soup packets. I never really use canned soup, but that’s the first thing you think of on occasions like these. No Saltines. We never even have any juice in our house (although I have to admit, I have bought frozen oj on the past two trips to Costco for our smoothies—I know). And you can imagine how much soda we have in the house. We live far enough away from town to dismiss the idea of running to the store. But we make do. I actually love putting together a little assembly of apple sauce and toast, things that go down easy and that can sit by his bed for awhile without rotting. I might need to create some sort of Sick Day tote with supplies just for this kind of special occasion.
I love the cozy feeling of caring for an invalid. All of a sudden everything deemed urgent is now on the back burner. You realize that there’s nothing really that you wouldn’t undo to care for your child. Succoring him, just being available to him, seems to be exactly what I was placed on this earth to do. Which I sense anyway, even on their well-days, I just feel it more keenly on days like these. I like the quiet of having only one child home. A dozing one at that. I like that I’m tethered to the house, that I can tidy up and play my soft music and enjoy the envelope of peace that sort of rests on our home. I might prop him up to watch some tv later on or maybe set up a bed on the couch in the living room upstairs when he wants to be a part of the activity but is still not quite up to par. You know how that is when you’re sick, so hard to be relegated to the back bedroom knowing family life is going on without you. And yet you just can’t quite do normal life the way you want. So playing spectator up close is as good as it gets.
I remember picking up my daughters when they’d felt yucky. I’d brought one a rice bag and chocolate to her school office. I asked if she’d prefer to just come home and felt such confirmation of an inspired offer when I could see the flood of relief in her little face and tears forming in the corners of her eyes. I knew it was perfect for her to be able to suffer in the privacy of her own home. Another one had been waiting and waiting for me (this was when I’d been at the temple), and so I raced especially fast to her side, so glad to finally hug her and be there for her. It felt so good to be her rescuer when she’d had to stay strong for so long.
It’s nearly the same even when they’ve grown into their big-kid bodies. I feel just as nurse-like with my college/high school-aged boys as the little kids. Maybe because they are just as pitiful as they were when they were little. It’s hard to be sick no matter how old you are, you just want to escape into sleep, nothing sounds good, you’re cold then sweaty, tired but restless. You hate to be alone in your bed with nothing to do, but at the same time that’s all you have energy for. It’s a wrestle you don’t have will to engage in, so you hope to just get Better soon, that it will all go away.
I know the mindset is to pity the soul who’s having a sick day. Which is warranted. It stinks. Throwing up is the worst. Chills where not even wearing sweats inside your bed warms you sufficiently. Post-op recovery is also bad. But aren’t you secretly just a teensy bit grateful for a sick day here and there? I love the halt it puts on our life, when the entire requirement for the day is to sip a few drops of liquid and maintain life.
My mom never took a sick day all the years I was growing up. Except once I remember her in bed right after a surgery and of course to have her two other babies. She kind of set a precedence because I never missed a day of high school (except for field trips). So dumb. In my mind I guess I figured it wouldn’t be worth it to make up all that work. Still dumb. I should’ve at least gone to the beach.
Kids are usually awesome at knowing when it’s time to take little time off. They seem to just know when it’s time to slow down and then when it’s time to be up again. I noticed this when Andrew was 17 and got his wisdom teeth out. I brought him home and set up shop on the couch with all the necessary paraphernalia. He threw up a bunch of blood. I think seeing it all over the bathroom kind of startled us both. And really grossed us out. But after three hours of resting he was all of a sudden back in his garage making knives. And never looked back. I just think kids are tuned in to how they feel and pay attention more than adults.
Granted, they have that luxury when they sense things aren’t quite right, nothing wrong with missing some school and watching tv all day. Unlike parents who need to get to work or college students with looming finals. But we just take some kind of Day-quill or other drug to keep things at bay and make the most of it. Kind of like a mom with little kids and a baby at home. You don’t dare nap because you have no idea if all the kids will still be there or what kind of trouble you’ll have when you wake up. You just turn on the tv and pray they stay nearby. It sort of throws them for a loop when the parent is the one down, especially if it’s the mom. It’s concerning and unsettling, so it’s probably best we don’t take it lying down for the most part.
A couple weeks back I could feel that I was kind of losing touch with myself. That sounds so dramatic, you know I’m not like that; I just knew I needed to pull back and kind of assess where I was and pay myself some attention instead of giving everything away. A lot of adults refuse to stop, seeing it as giving in, being weak. But I took some time off and said no to a few things and just spent some downtime at home, a couple of “sick days.” Maybe selfish to some, but I saw it more as an investment. More like a time to rest and recoup and get stronger so I could be more useful and happy. And now I’m feeling more like Andrew who left his couch-bed to get back to work, more like my energetic self who has a list longer than her day but likes it that way, like my younger kids who let their soup get cold because the trampoline is beckoning and they’ve missed too many jumps convalesing. That’s how you know you’re on the mend.
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