Being sick

When I was sick as a kid, my mom brought me toast with honey and Campbell’s chicken & stars soup. Whatever beverage she brought had ice cubes in it, which made it feel like a grown-up drink (my folks hosted a lot of bridge club nights and the occasional cocktail party).

If I had an upset stomach she gave me 7-Up—the only time I ever got to have pop as a kid, with the occasional rare exception of a Grape or Orange Crush purchased in a gas station on a family vacation (I think she limited us to those two because of their faint, faint resemblance to some sort of fruit juice).

I got to lie on the couch and feel sorry for myself, with a receptacle handy in case I threw up, or with a box of tissues at hand if it was a sinus-y thing. She wiped my forehead with a damp washcloth if I ran a fever. So I like to be taken care of when I’m sick.

I woke up yesterday with a scratchy throat that grew a lot worse last night. I kept waking up feeling as if I couldn’t swallow (and wondering if I’d been snoring).

This morning, my sweetheart made me a comforting bowl of hot oatmeal before taking off on a long bike ride with a couple of guys from his club, Spokane Rocket Velo. I drank coffee and read the paper, then settled on the sofa with some magazines awaiting Mom Taxi duties for a pick-up after an overnight at a birthday party.

Kate went along for the ride when the call came around 11. After we picked up Laura, I stopped at the grocery store for a few essentials, including the Western Family “compare to Chloraseptic” product and bags of honey –lemon cough drops for me, cherry for the rest of the family in case they catch whatever this is.

Now I’m on the sofa. Kate tucked me in with her special blanket for when she’s sick, explaining that a when-you’re-sick blanket can’t go with anything else. (This sucker is bright blue with starfish and tropical fish and white polka dots all over it.)

At my side I have cranberry-raspberry juice in a glass with ice cubes; water in another glass with ice cubes; my generic throat spray and cough drops; and a box of tissues, all laid out by Kate. She pushed the ottoman a little closer so I could reach everything easily, and told me to holler if I need anything. I asked if I could just croak feebly instead, and she said sure.

The generational torch has been passed.

1 comment :

Comments are like karma. The more you give, the more you receive. (Spam is like karma too.)