“I thig I’b cubbing dowd with somethig.” Deeper voice than usual, muted consonants, eyelids at half-mast.
Oh boy.
I feel ashamed to admit it, but this sad display of lurgy that should inspire sympathy, mopping of brow, and endless cups of tea with honey often causes within me an instant flare of panic and stress. My workload has just gone up, I’m now flying solo, and the daily rhythms that help our little family unit move from one part of the day to the next are all up in the air.
I do TRY to be a good nurse, but that’s a lot easier for the first bit when there’s still the hope that an afternoon of TLC will beat the germs. But once the “dressing gown of doom” is donned, and I hear, “I thig I’ve just godda go to bed,” I know it’s all over. Man down.
But underneath that stress, there’s something more.
More than just anxiety and tiredness, and as awful as it is to admit it, and as guilty as I feel about it, it rears its head every time you’re ill, without fail.
Irritation.
Honestly, I’m not mad you’re sick.
It’s not your fault. I do not blame you. I do not think you brought it on yourself. I am not angry with you.
But, man alive, am I annoyed.
Then, today, after much soul-searching and another day of trying not to feel cross about your spotty tonsils, I have to admit it.
I’m not mad you’re sick—I’m jealous.
I wish I could be sick like you. Well, not like that. Nobody wants that. You look horrific.
What I mean is I wish that when I felt unwell, I could just go to bed.
Rest. Switch off from it all. Know it’s all in hand. Recover. Emerge when I feel better. Let it take as long as it takes.
For me, being sick doesn’t look like that.
I take the kids to and from school feeling (and looking) like death. I sit through meetings at our daughter’s school with a scratchy throat, trying to sit near a ventilated window so as not to share the love. I sniffle my way through the folding and rotating of laundry. I sing “five little ducks went swimming one day” in a lower key and with decreasing gusto in between coughing fits during my 9-hour shift of child entertainment while you’re at work. I take “clean inside of car” off my list, but add “sort out income protection insurance,” as it can be done from under a duvet. I may even take the opportunity to catch up on sorting my inbox. If I decide I don’t have the energy to cook a full dinner, I have to plan a replacement meal or ask you to do so. And if I accept your offer to do the shopping instead of me, I still write the list. I don’t feel like I can just stop.
And if I do actually give in and go to bed, when I’m awake, I’ll text to remind you to make sure our daughter has her homework deadline and needs her hair washed tonight.
And if I’m asleep, I get woken to have a squirmy baby put next to me to nurse while kicking me in the stomach.
It doesn’t seem to matter when I am sick. I just have to big-fat-do-it-anyway.
I’m not sharing this to make you feel bad. I just want you to know why you see me take a deep breath when I hear you’re starting to feel off-color. You’re not doing anything wrong by being ill or going to bed or taking the time to recover. You’re doing the sensible thing. I’m the one getting it wrong, not you.
And I want you to know I saw you hold the baby earlier while I got the lunch sorted, and I noticed you had hung the laundry while I went on the school run, and I appreciated that while you waited for the kettle to boil, you did some washing up. And I love that even when you’re feeling rubbish, you still look for little things to do that will help me. I am so lucky to have you.
So, I want you to know I’m not mad you’re sick. Honestly.
I just wish I could be sick. I want to go to bed too.
by Nicole Merritt 
by Karen Johnson 
by Taihjma Harris 
