First published on Home Educating Family. Republished with permission by the team, and the author (that's me).
Women have
something in them that fools them into thinking they are Super Woman. Well, for
me it’s Wonder Woman (I even had the Underoos to prove it. And the aluminum
foil bracelets. And the crown). So, when I get sick, I live in total denial for
several days.
“I’m fine,”
I croak, crankily.
I gargle
garlic juice and take hot showers. I drink huge amounts of tea and put my hair
up so it doesn’t stick to the back of my clammy neck. I google my symptoms and
realize I’m dying of a flesh eating disease. Eventually, the sore throat begins
to get worse. Where a scratchiness was a moment ago, a full on forest fire the
likes of which California has never seen, is breaking out now. My voice begins
to go, which small totally children take advantage of.
“What’d you
say, Mommy?” I hear as they run off to wreak havoc and take over the free
world, “We didn’t hear you! Did you say DO put the baby on a leash and DO dress
up the neighbor’s cat? OKAY!”
My insides
turn to sandbags. Is it my kidneys and liver and spleen shutting down, or am I
just exhausted? Do I even need my spleen? What’s with the sudden bouts of
narcolepsy?
Then the
coughing begins, and I sound like a bull frog with a smoking problem. I hack up
my spleen and learn having it on the inside of me was optional after all. Like
my tonsils, wisdom teeth, and appendix. Which all seem to be dripping out my
nasal cavity.
Still, I do
not admit to being sick! By golly, I may be a little under the weather. But I
can beat this. For crying out loud, I fly an invisible plane and karate chop
Nazis for a living, I think I can beat a wee little head cold and still teach
phonics! Pshaw!
Speaking of
air planes and Nazis, I start to see strange things. Am I hallucinating due to
a fever, or are there really purple life size Gummy bears in my office? Do I
embrace them or eat them? Why is it so hot in here?
Still, I do
not admit to any illness. On the sly, I may be sipping Nyquil like it’s a juice
box, but that’s a total coincidence.
I.
Am.
Not.
Sick!
As if to
punish me for ignoring them, the Porcelain Throne Gods demand a sacrifice and a
thorough worshipping at their alter. Knees knocking together, I answer their
call. They are angry with me and I have to prove my loyalty to them by sticking
around for oh, about three days.
I haven’t
combed my hair or put on make-up in a week. I keep my bangs slicked back with
homemade, organic hair gel (boogers and spit). My nose looks like I was stung
by a mass of killer hornets with pink Kool-Aid in their stingers. I’ve gone
through so many rolls of toilet paper for blowing my sore snozz that I’ve had
to ration the remainder in the kid’s bathroom: three squares for #1, five for
#2. We can’t have company over because they might have to use the bathroom.
Also, since I have The Plague (or is it The Black Lung?) they wouldn’t want to
come in anyway.
Now comes
the point where I admit I might be sick. After a full week of hearing people in
my life tell me to go to the doctor, I am finally at that space. That space
where I can admit I need help. Help of the narcotic variety, that is. A little
Codeine? Don’t mind if I do. A Tylenol cocktail? Why, yes, please. Bubble gum
flavored antibiotics? Come to mama.
Of course,
deciding to see a doctor and actually seeing a doctor are too entirely
different scenarios. In the scenario in my mind, I call, they answer, I go in,
they are glad to see me, I get medicine, they say goodbye, I come home. What
really happens:
I call.
They don’t
answer.
I have some
lovely flute music to occupy myself while I am on hold for thirteen years.
Christmas
comes and goes. My baby graduates from college.
Eventually,
they come back on the line and what do you know? I’m still sick.
They can
squeeze me in in three days.
Three days?
I’ll be dead
in three days, I say.
Okay, come
in now, they agree.
I go in.
They are
busy. Small children sneeze on me, and one licks me.
I read
Redbooks from 1989. Crickets chirp. Tumbleweeds tumble by. I’ve heard every
song Michael Bolton ever sang on the soft rock station. Twice.
They call me
back.
I explain my
symptoms. Well, not really. My voice is gone at this point, so I charade my
symptoms.
Flailing
wildy, I make gestures and do a little improv interpretive dancing.
You don’t
feel well? The doctor asks, as I back flip over the table and mime Scarlet
Fever. I land to a 9.5 from the Romanian judge.
I nod, in
relief.
Would you
like something for that? The doctor asks.
I embrace
him fondly and get snot on his coat.
He writes me
prescriptions. I mime a marriage proposal but he declines.
The thought
of driving to the pharmacy to pick them up makes me cry, but I am strong! I am
Wonder Woman! I am invincible!
Before I
brave the horrors of the pharmacy, I need a nap. And some tea. Maybe a
sandwich.
Afterwards,
I feel a little better. I skip the prescriptions, toss what’s left of the
Nyquil, undress the neighbor’s cat, and comb my hair.
I hear my
husband sniffle gently.
Horror
crosses his face. “I’m so totally sick! No one’s ever been so sick! I’m calling
in sick! Honey, I’m sick, would you make me some soup while I go immediately to
the doctor? I’m sick!”
Ah, my hero.
My manly man. He of the bulging biceps and raging testosterone. My G.I. Joe.
“Don’t get
too close,” he gasps, as I rub his chest with Vapor Rub. “I wouldn’t want you
to catch this…don’t want you getting sick…I can take it though…is my soup
ready? My soup, cuz I’m sick? Man, I’m so sick,” snarf. Blurp. Snoffle. “I’m so
glad you didn’t catch this, honey. Aren’t you glad you didn’t get sick?”
“Don’t
worry,” says I. “I never get sick.”
