In Sickness and Health

on being sick and the comforts we seek

I’m in my third grade class and we’re watching a movie about communications, how the telephone works, things like that. The narrator is explaining how thin wires can be and he says “feel a strand of your hair” so I do. But it feels weird to me. It feels thick and heavy in my fingers. And suddenly I don’t feel so good. Nothing feels right. I feel hot and achy and everything feels weird to the touch. When the movie is done, I go to the nurse and she says I have a fever. My mother picks me up and we head to the doctor, where I’m diagnosed with the first of many sinus infections. I take some disgusting pink medicine and get into bed. My mother brings me a cup of chicken broth and two pieces of buttered toast. She pulls a book off the shelf for me, one of my favorites, and leaves me to my sickbed, feeling loved and comforted. That’s better than all the pink medicine in the world.

That was my first memory of being really sick. I don’t remember much about the measles or chickenpox I had, but for some reason I remember this so clearly, the feeling of being taken care of.

I’ve been sick the past couple of days. Chills, fever, body aches, stuffy head, sore throat. A rapid Covid test came back negative, but because I have so many symptoms, they did a PCR test that will take several days to get results from. I can’t go back to work while I have symptoms and while I’m waiting for test results, so I’ll be home the rest of the week. This is the worst I felt since that day in third grade when I was learning about telephones and suddenly became sick. And I want comfort, I want books and toast and blankets and I want all that brought to me by someone with the natural instincts to make a sick person feel better. I want my mommy.

My husband is great. He’ll ask if I need anything, he’ll go to Walgreens for me when I run out of tissues, he’ll fetch me another blanket. But he’s keeping his distance this time in case I do have Covid and I can’t say I blame him. So it’s up to me to provide myself with the comfort and care I need to get through this and all I want to do is sleep. I don’t want to make my own toast and chicken soup and tea. I want someone to read to me.

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It’s the mid 90s or so and both my kids have chickenpox. Natalie is at the tail end and DJ is just getting started. It’s the middle of summer and we can hear cousins running around outside, having fun, enjoying the day. I have the kids on my bed and I’m taking turns rubbing them down with calamine lotion. They’re miserable and I’m trying to make it a bit better for them. I bring them juice, I bring them toast, I read to them - “Itchy Itchy Chicken Pox” is but one of the sick-related books I got from the library - and when the books are done we watch “Beauty and the Beast” until they fall asleep. I lay down next to them and think about being sick as a kid and what comforted me. I try to do for my kids the same that was done for me, to make being sick a little less hard.

There were times I could not make it better, like when DJ had terrible ear infections that landed him the in hospital. All I wanted was to procure some magical pink medicine and read him a book and make him some toast so he’d feel loved and comforted. Emotional band-aids, administered with love. That’s how you get someone through being sick. When DJ had to stay overnight in the hospital, the nurses brought a big television with a VCR into the room. I sat in the chair next to his bed - which was more of a giant crib - and we watched “Beauty and the Beast” over and over again while he slept on and off, sticking my hand through the slats of his bed and rubbing his arm and trying to let him know it would be okay.

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Now it’s 1996 and I’m sick with an infection that is making my joints swell up. I have a burning rash over my arms and legs and torso. I’m weak and feverish and they put me on steroids because they think it’s Lyme Disease (it turns out I had an adult version of a children’s illness that I cannot remember the name of right now). I’m lying in bed, helpless and hopeless and all I want is for someone to comfort me. My then husband comes in the room and unceremoniously asks what’s for dinner. I cry when he leaves the room. Then Natalie, all of six years old, walks in the room, climbs into bed with me, and starts rubbing my arm and while whispering “you’ll be ok, mommy. It will be alright.” I am comforted. I sob.

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There are certain things I like when I’m sick: grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch; my Calvin and Hobbes collection; an old album, maybe some Duran Duran, playing scratchily on the turntable; a big glass of lemon water next to me; blankets and pillows shaped into a soft, welcoming mountain. And the toast, always the toast, even if I’m not hungry, even if I’ve already had grilled cheese. These are the things I need, my lifelines when I’m feeling like I’m being dragged to hell and back. Maybe a heating pad on my back when I have the chills. The fuzzy, salty taste of Alka Seltzer Plus. A cup of Lipton tea with milk and sugar. I crave all these things, but I also crave having them brought to me, made me for me, delivered with a soft kiss or a quick rub on my arm. A whisper of “It will be alright.”

It’s different when you’re an adult. You’re supposed to be self sufficient. You’re supposed to be able to look after yourself, to do things you need to do to get better. Drink liquids, swallow your pills, get rest. And that’s all well and good. But I want the other stuff, too. I revert to a child-like state when I’m sick, especially this sick. I want my mother to come over and make me soup. I want my husband to tuck me in. But with the possibility of my illness being Covid, I can’t have that. All I can do is wait for Todd to leave the house so I can shuffle into the kitchen to make myself toast and a cup of tea. At least I don’t have to take any pink medicine.