It came out of nowhere. One minute, I’m happily going through my hectic week, feeling good about sticking to my new-found determination to work out and generally being a productive member of my household and society when, AAA-Chooo!!! There it was. A bug so virulent that I woke up with a 38.5 degree fever, burning eyeballs that won’t stop crying; dry, muscle reacquainting cough and a runny nose that must have seen Kleenex tissue sales ramp up in a weekend. And I bravely soldiered on, mind you. I finished the rough draft of my gallery paper through a fever-induced haze. I sat down for every meal. I swallowed an impressive array of cough and cold medicine, over-the-counter, homeopathic, herbal and everything in between. And then I gave the bug to my kids.
See, this is what I’m bemoaning about. After the very real ache of missing out on hugs and kisses given to and received from my offspring, I am feeling very sore about passing on this, well, flu, or whatever it is. What was the point of shooing them away from my room? Or of wiping the keyboard and mousepad with antiseptic? Or of washing my hands after every sneeze? My poor babies. Because that’s what they are when they’re sick. My babies. In my eyes, I see the babies that they were and I revisit each and every memory of their growth. I tell myself that this episode is far less worrying than the time we had to rush each kid to the hospital, over bad falls, convulsions brought on by fever, allergies, jaundice… I put my faith in God and medicine. Surely, these are good kids and the Lord will hear my simple prayer.
And yet, as I stay up all night to put cold compress over a seven-year old’s feverish forehead, I lose all my confidence and start to let my mind wander. Why is he not responding to the medicine like his big brother? When I see our older son bravely state that he thinks he can manage to go to school and then promptly collapse from a dizzy spell, I ask what did I miss? I go crazy over the type of soup they should eat, if they are drinking enough fluids, or if it’s time to see the doctor. What if it’s worse than I think? And so on and so forth; one grim possibility compounded by another.
“Children make cowards of us all,” a wise old friend paraphrased Hamlet to me. I was once a fearless, perhaps even impetuous youth. Nothing fazed me for I knew early on that life is hard, it is tragic, and it is not for the faint-hearted or for the lazy. I would dare to do anything I believe in. I used to say smugly, “I live my life at 200 miles per hour” with all the heartache, drama and excitement that came with that speed. But that has all changed when my children came into the picture. All of a sudden, I am afraid. Of so many things – the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat… are they clean enough or will they make my children sick? Afraid of speed, the one thing I loved the most about anything and everything. I never liked waiting, and all of a sudden, I worry that cars are going too fast, that the lessons and activities in the classroom are just a blur, that everything in media sets up ADHD, and that the kids are growing up too fast. I worry about wars. I worry about the economy collapsing. I worry about real estate. I even worry about my getting sick. Again. Who will take care of my kids?
I just set up a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. It can’t hurt. They are better, or so they say. The fever is slight. The TV is on. The short school week almost over, and the Chinese New Year long weekend is waiting for us to be back on our feet so we can face everything head on once again. A barbecue and a swim have been set up. A visit to the museum. Plans for play dates (the term which the kids no longer use) and grown up only dinners. House cleaning (hah!). Emails to be checked. Photos to be scanned and uploaded. School project to be worked on. We can’t afford to be sick. I can’t make myself sick with worry.
So I will put on my brave face and smile as I check up on the two boys. I will use my chatter about vitamins and sleep and rest to hide my fear. I will insist on them eating the chicken vegetable soup as I check their temperature. And I will say we're going to see the doctor tomorrow with nonchalance. After all, it's just a little bug (I hope).
See, this is what I’m bemoaning about. After the very real ache of missing out on hugs and kisses given to and received from my offspring, I am feeling very sore about passing on this, well, flu, or whatever it is. What was the point of shooing them away from my room? Or of wiping the keyboard and mousepad with antiseptic? Or of washing my hands after every sneeze? My poor babies. Because that’s what they are when they’re sick. My babies. In my eyes, I see the babies that they were and I revisit each and every memory of their growth. I tell myself that this episode is far less worrying than the time we had to rush each kid to the hospital, over bad falls, convulsions brought on by fever, allergies, jaundice… I put my faith in God and medicine. Surely, these are good kids and the Lord will hear my simple prayer.
And yet, as I stay up all night to put cold compress over a seven-year old’s feverish forehead, I lose all my confidence and start to let my mind wander. Why is he not responding to the medicine like his big brother? When I see our older son bravely state that he thinks he can manage to go to school and then promptly collapse from a dizzy spell, I ask what did I miss? I go crazy over the type of soup they should eat, if they are drinking enough fluids, or if it’s time to see the doctor. What if it’s worse than I think? And so on and so forth; one grim possibility compounded by another.
“Children make cowards of us all,” a wise old friend paraphrased Hamlet to me. I was once a fearless, perhaps even impetuous youth. Nothing fazed me for I knew early on that life is hard, it is tragic, and it is not for the faint-hearted or for the lazy. I would dare to do anything I believe in. I used to say smugly, “I live my life at 200 miles per hour” with all the heartache, drama and excitement that came with that speed. But that has all changed when my children came into the picture. All of a sudden, I am afraid. Of so many things – the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat… are they clean enough or will they make my children sick? Afraid of speed, the one thing I loved the most about anything and everything. I never liked waiting, and all of a sudden, I worry that cars are going too fast, that the lessons and activities in the classroom are just a blur, that everything in media sets up ADHD, and that the kids are growing up too fast. I worry about wars. I worry about the economy collapsing. I worry about real estate. I even worry about my getting sick. Again. Who will take care of my kids?
I just set up a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. It can’t hurt. They are better, or so they say. The fever is slight. The TV is on. The short school week almost over, and the Chinese New Year long weekend is waiting for us to be back on our feet so we can face everything head on once again. A barbecue and a swim have been set up. A visit to the museum. Plans for play dates (the term which the kids no longer use) and grown up only dinners. House cleaning (hah!). Emails to be checked. Photos to be scanned and uploaded. School project to be worked on. We can’t afford to be sick. I can’t make myself sick with worry.
So I will put on my brave face and smile as I check up on the two boys. I will use my chatter about vitamins and sleep and rest to hide my fear. I will insist on them eating the chicken vegetable soup as I check their temperature. And I will say we're going to see the doctor tomorrow with nonchalance. After all, it's just a little bug (I hope).
