Sick

Today is Easter. A day of hope and joy, family and fun. Christians will be reminded of the ultimate sacrifice, a life surrendered and reborn. Children will be hyped up on sugar and the novelty of the day, and families will come together for a lunch or dinner.  Children in their Easter outfits with chocolate stains already on the sleeve, adults, laughing, chatting, some drinking and bickering, most happy to get together, and a few even happier when it is time to head home.

But not us. This year, with four fifths of my immediate family under the weather and the only healthy one having been diagnosed less than a week ago with strep throat, we are not in a celebratory mood. My 19-year-old son slept for 13 hours straight the night before last, and trudging from his bedroom at 1 pm declared,  “I am dying inside” before collapsing on the couch and curling up into a ball. The last time this kid was this sick, he was scheduled to leave for Europe on a school trip. With a temp of 102 the day before they were to depart, I wondered if he should go, until I remembered that I could have finished paying my car off with the amount that we paid for this first -world kid experience, so I sent him off with Tamiflu, tissues, Ibuprofen and prayers. He was fine.

With so many of us sick at once, it hit me how differently we handle it. Bean, at four, for example refuses to admit defeat. She will not talk about her symptoms and will not let anyone else discuss it. “I don’t want to talk about it!” she almost shouts when queried about her belly or her throat. She does the same thing when she has skinned a knee. She covers it with her hand and will not look at, or let anyone else inspect it. She prefers to carry on as if nothing has happened. “Dress up and show up” describes her little soldier like thinking. Her mother just sent me a picture of her that explains her well.  She is dressed in her Easter dress, a purple swirly affair, with tights and “fancy shoes” which are white patent leather with a little heel. She loves them. The only problem is, she has been vomiting and running to the bathroom all morning. This is not the most practical outfit, but it makes her feel a little better. She is of the Ma Ingalls, “lest said, sooner mended” mentality. So far, this mind-set has served her well.

Her mother, my oldest, is like this as well. An active, courageous child with a love of horses, she has suffered many injuries in her quarter century on the planet. Sports and riding have left her with multiple surgeries, broken bones and several avulsions under her belt. Undaunted, she continues her course without complaint or pause. Last week, she worked two twelve-hour shifts with a fever and sore throat, waited until her day off to be diagnosed with strep throat, and not missing a beat or a day of work, never mentioned it again. She does not expect special treatment or sympathy when she is ill or wounded and has little time or patience with histrionics, which is a great lead in for our next patient.

Our patriarch, Tiny, is tough as nails, most of the time. This man, has put six stitches in his own hand (easy, peasy…boil thread and needle, drink lots of alcohol, sew away), and allowed a friend to attempt to pull an infected tooth (not so easy, required more alcohol, duct tape and pliers and was ultimately not successful due to the fact that the tooth broke). Have you ever heard of Yankee ingenuity? Mainers are a tough, and resourceful bunch and if you don’t have health insurance, because you are an adult with a family, attending college, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.  Put that image aside for a moment and imagine a different person entirely. This person moans, loudly and frequently when he has a fever, he rolls around in bed and sends SOS texts, such as, and I quote, “I’m burning up!! Could you bring up the thermometer and Gatorade?” In all my years of taking temperatures (that would be 29, at least professionally), I have never seen someone relish a fever like he does. I get it. It’s the outward expression of your inward misery. It is the proof to yourself and to your wife, that you are indeed dying a slow, hot death. He is the antithesis, at least when he is sick, of the first two.

My son and I, however, are a lot alike in many ways. We take the middle and sometimes, but certainly not always, the high road on many things. In sickness, we do not deviate from this. We accept our fate, and deal with it. We try not to complain but don’t deny that we are suffering when asked. We do not whimper in our beds, and we don’t carry on as if everything is fine either. Last night, and quite possibly the rest of today, will find my son and me each on a couch, wrapped up like burritos in blankets, binging without guilt on Shameless while tossing the box of tissues or a phone charger back and forth to whichever one needs the item the most.

So, that’s it, dear reader. These are the characters in my family,  all in various stages of illness, from prodromal to convalescence. Thank you for indulging me and helping me to take my mind off my body aches. While you are enjoying your spiral ham and your chocolate bunny with your family, my family will be moaning, denying and indulging in Netflix . To each his own.