It started with a few coughs and a sniffly nose. Within hours my son was shivering under a blanket on the couch. Body aches, headache, a raging fever that lasted for three days, and hacking, coughing and lots of whining followed. And that’s how the swine flu (excuse me, the H1N1 virus) arrived at our house last week.
When I was single, being sick wasn’t that big of a deal. Then I got married and had a baby and she came down with her first fever. “Does she feel warm to you?” I asked my husband, the worry already knotting my stomach. “Should I call the doctor?” I walked the floor with her while she fussed, my heart pounding as I imagined all kinds of life-threatening illnesses—virulent strep, meningitis, pneumonia, sinusitis gone to the brain. When I put her to bed I couldn’t sleep and checked on her every twenty minutes, wondering if a fever justified a middle-of-the-night phone call to the pediatrician (I found out it did not).
Since then I’ve nursed my children through a myriad of illnesses: ear infections, strep, colds (how many cold viruses is it possible to get in a lifetime? Surely we’ve had all of them), influenzas, stomach viruses, bronchitis, pneumonia, sinus infections, croup. And is there anything more terrifying than croup? Holding a baby who’s gasping for breath in a steam-filled bathroom in the middle of the night—now there’s a good time. I’ve walked the floor with sick children innumerable nights, trying to stem the rising tide of panic and counting the hours until 8:00 a.m. when the doctor’s office opened. And if I had a nickel for every time I’ve dragged a sick child to the doctor, only to be told, “It’s a virus. Give him fluids and make sure he gets plenty of rest,” I’d be able to single-handedly solve the nation’s health care crisis.
After my children started school, a new kind of dread seeped into my soul when a child would wake up sick as I realized I’d have to cancel all of my plans for the day, maybe for the week, maybe forever. That hair appointment I made three months ago? Canceled. Lunch with a friend? Canceled. A peaceful, TV-free afternoon, with just the sound of the dryer running and a couple of hours to write? All gone. Am I the only mother who has determinedly waved her child out the door to the bus stop even though he’s complaining of a tummy ache, only to sheepishly pick him up an hour later after he’s thrown up during the Pledge of Allegiance? And when one child gets sick, it’s only a matter of time before the rest fall like dominoes, and you end up spending the whole of December trapped in your house watching Barney, Disney movies, and Star Wars and dispensing doses of cold medicine and chicken noodle soup while the space under the Christmas tree remains bare and you realize you’ll have to do all of your Christmas shopping at 10:00 p.m.—on Dec. 23rd.
So I decided we’d get flu shots every winter, and, as you can imagine, my children were thrilled. There’s nothing I enjoy more than driving a car full of shrieking, hyperventilating children down to the local immunization clinic. Last year I dragged my hysterical ten-year-old out of the car while she clawed at the seat, then caught hold of the door handle. After I finally pried her fingers off of the door and carried her thrashing into Walgreens, the pharmacist informed me that they don’t administer shots to children under thirteen. I’ve never seen a child look so happy. Another year I had to wrestle down my thirteen-year-old son in the immunization clinic and practically sit on his chest while the amazed nurse tried to give him a shot; and while he was thrashing and fighting and trying to bite me, somehow he managed to karate kick my daughter in the upper arm—right where she’d just gotten her shot. For some reason, the nurse recognized us when we came back a year later.
And where is my husband in all this, you ask? Usually at work. Unless he’s sick, in which case he is in bed. We’re talking about the man who took the day off of work and went to bed after having two moles removed (okay, they were fatty cysts, but still). He actually insists that men get sicker than women do. Maybe that’s because when I’m sick I’m usually bravely soldiering on, folding laundry and making dinner in between coughing fits, taking care of sick kids while my head threatens to explode. Meanwhile, I find my husband in bed, watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and sipping peppermint tea with honey, a cool cloth on his head and used Kleenex strewn all over the bed. That’s when I actually consider committing manslaughter.
Which goes to show that the only thing worse than having sick kids is having a sick husband.
Feel free to comment on any aspect of this post, including coping with sick children, having sick kids home from school, getting vaccinations, or whether you find sick husbands annoying. Oh, and if you have any home remedies or stories to share, please do.
Related posts:
Continue reading at the original source →