Household Word: Ready, Get Sick, Go!

It’s a fact of life – if you can call how I feel living. Moms aren’t allowed to get sick. We get 10 minutes to recover from a 48-hour virus. Then, dead or alive, we have to get up and walk the dog at dawn, plunge the overflowing toilet and drive the kids to saxophone lessons.

It’s enough to make a woman take refuge at work, where at least people will tell you that you look terrible and you ought to go home.

This winter has been tough at my house. All three kids have been sick with strep throat, flu and colds. I have been a veritable Florence Nightingale, fetching popsicles, letting them watch TV in my bedroom and giving them a little bell so they can summon me if they want toast or need to throw up. I figure maybe they’ll remember these small kindnesses when it’s time to pick out my nursing home.

When my kids are sick, they let me know; when my husband is sick, everybody knows. He lies on the couch in the middle of the living room and bellows like a beached sea lion. He gargles loudly and often, and threatens to move into a hotel with a health spa. The last time he had the sniffles, he put 911 on speed dial, treated himself to a bottle of 30-year-old port (for strictly medicinal purposes) and e-mailed the producers of Nova with ideas for a documentary series on his cold.

When I get sick, no one is interested. At least no one at my house.

"I don’t feel so good," I said to my husband a few days ago. "My throat is really sore and it feels like there’s a bowling alley in my brain. I think I have a fever and I feel nauseated. It must be the flu."

"Nah," he said, without the slightest hint of compassion. "It’s probably just that chicken thing you made for dinner last night."

"It could be the plague," I croaked.

"Does that mean you’re not getting up to make coffee?" asked my loving spouse, as he looked at his watch.

"Honey," I whispered, "I just need to lie here for a few minutes – until I reach the end of the tunnel and touch the benevolent light."

"OK, but don’t take too long," he said. "It’s already 6:30 and I’ve got an early meeting. By the way, can you pick up my dry cleaning today?"

"You don’t understand," I said in a voice that sounded just like Brando in The Godfather. "I am sick. In fact, I might be dying. It may be just a matter of minutes before it’s my turn to drive that great car pool in the sky."