Sickness & Sanity
Sickness has a way of leaving its mark. Not just the aches or the fevers, but the memories—how people react, who shows up, and the chaos that comes with it. Some of my sick days were miserable, some were funny in hindsight, and all of them taught me something about the people around me.
When I was a kid, missing a day of school was not an option. Anytime we said we were sick, Mom’s response was, “Take an aspirin and a Geritol and you’ll feel fine.” Sympathy wasn’t really on the table. One time that I did manage to stay home from school, I remember making it far enough to be standing in the bathroom doorway, dry-heaving and trying to get my bearings. Dad took one look, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me toward the toilet. No gentle words, no comforting back rub—just “protect the rug.”
Years later, when I was a brand-new mom, being sick with a baby looked completely different. Bradley was six months old, running a fever, and absolutely miserable. I tried a lukewarm bath—he screamed. I tried rocking him—he screamed louder. I tried laying him down—still screaming. And then… as I lifted him up, he unleashed a projectile vomit straight out of The Exorcist. No head spins, thank goodness, but it was bright orange and it went everywhere. Walls, floor, me, him. I just stood there frozen, wondering if I should laugh, cry, or call for holy water.
As a young adult in college, migraines became my unwelcome companion. They started small but grew worse as the years went on. When Brad was about two, my husband and I were both down with a nasty bug for two solid weeks, and on top of it all I had a massive migraine. Nighttime I could survive in the quiet, but daytime was another story. With Jerry Springer blaring on the bedroom TV, I waved the white flag and moved myself into the spare bedroom for the duration. Luckily, Mom came over every day to help with Brad, making sure at least one of us in the house was functioning.
Then came my own battle with bronchitis. I couldn’t lay flat, so I lived in the living room recliner for two weeks. Judy would stop by with all the tenderness of a Hallmark nurse—setting a cup of soup, a glass of ice with Gatorade, and a neatly folded napkin on a TV tray like I was royalty. Mom, on the other hand, showed up, handed me two Excedrin, and practically tossed a warm Gatorade at me on her way back out the door. Both versions of care worked, but Judy’s came with presentation.
When the kids were older, my migraines turned into a full family operation. After someone drove me home from work, one kid would grab the Excedrin, another the ice pack, and another the water. Then they’d call Grandma to come over and help for the night. They’d tuck me into bed, turn off the lights, and let me “die in peace.” It wasn’t glamorous, but it was teamwork, and in their own way, they made sure I was taken care of.
Sickness in my life has been messy, loud, sometimes funny, and sometimes lonely. But it’s also been a reminder: the people who show up matter. Whether they bring soup, toss a Gatorade, hold your baby, or just turn down the TV, those moments of care—big or small—stick with you. Every season of sickness has left its own mark.
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