Are You Sick?

I Inherited a Bit of Denial

You know those nasty, seasonal colds that seem to attack people twice a year? I don’t get those. I can count on one hand the times I suffered some particularly insidious virus and, therefore, remember the details of each time.

Once, when I was very little and under the care of my older sister, she took me shopping—against our parents’ orders, mind you. I wilted quickly as a fever lit up my insides, so Sis decided it was wise to get us home. But we were in the middle of a snowstorm and had hitch-hiked to the store earlier, so we would have to hitch a ride home as well. She wrapped her jacket around the both of us, tucking me against her and covering my head as we stood at the curb, thumb out for cars to see. Wind and sharp pellets of icy snow punished us with mini fists striking hard against our bodies. We looked like a pitiful pair, and a kind, elderly couple picked us up and dropped us at home, gently reprimanding my sister for taking her little sister out in this weather.

Apologies spewed from my sister many times as she plugged in a vaporizer, gave me some orange baby aspirin, tucked me in bed, and put on one of those old 33-speed story records. Ahh the relief—I felt so cozy that all was forgiven as I sunk into the soft quilt and pillows and closed my eyes to the sound of Hansel & Gretel.

Minutes later, she woke me—again with profuse apologies—and gathered me up to get to the neighbor’s house down the street as Mrs. Sype had some emergency and needed my sister to babysit. My disturbed cocoon could not be replicated down the street, but the baby aspirin kicked in, and I rested over there, denying the severity when our parents got home.

Later in life, I had a bad case of bronchitis that presented during a trip with my husband to Paris. Probably the sickest I’ve ever been. Suffice it to say, he worried enough for both of us and paid for a rather expensive private tour around the city with a guide who thought nothing of contagion and gently taught us the local lore, stopping at key spots for photos. That way, I didn’t have to walk much as extreme fatigue accompanied this virus. I sat in the vehicle with a steaming cup of honey & lemon tea warming my lungs.

Pretending I was not sick.

I never like to own sickness. Some pop psychology I read somewhere advised: Never say “I have” such & such malady. Or “I am sick.”

Try, instead, “I am fighting a virus.” Or “I am getting over an infection.” Don’t act like it’s yours to hold onto.

Maybe I take this too far at times.

Back when my eldest daughter was home on break from college and preparing for a service trip to Costa Rica with the youth group, she had been struggling with a fever for a week prior. We thought it best to have a doctor check her out before the trip to make sure she would be safe to leave in the next couple days.

You are free to make a judgement here because I admit, this is a little crazy . . .

Somehow, we decided to highlight my daughter’s hair in the hours before her doctor appointment. Why we thought this was important to accomplish before a service trip, I cannot fathom. She had been stuck in bed for days, so I set up all the equipment and a chair in front of the bathroom mirror. I then had to literally pull her out of bed and help her get seated for the hair care. 🤦‍♀️

Talk about denial.

Initially, the doctor made some positive comments encouraging us that she would, indeed, be safe enough to participate in the service trip, though her energy might be a little low. He mentioned that she “looked too good to be that sick.” Of course she did after our make-shift salon treatment.  But after some deep dive into blood work, he called us back and said, “Absolutely not.” She could not go out of the country with her spleen enlarged during this case of mononucleosis. Our non-alarmist doctor said it could be a life-or-death decision. Luckily, she was on break from college near the end of the semester and could rest properly for a couple of weeks. We did laugh and say, “At least her hair looked pretty in her convalescence.”

Although I retain an unusually high number of childhood memories, I do not remember my mother suffering a cold even once. I cannot picture her ever blowing her nose. She never experienced a headache either. And as I mentioned before, even when she was dying of liver disease, she managed a few rounds of golf with friends.

Maybe I inherited that one good trait—I surely do not contract colds very often, just like my mom.

And when I do, I don’t like to talk about it. Perhaps that’s denial, but I feel like this denial takes the power away from the sickness. I prefer to nurse at home and go about my daily business as if nothing’s wrong. As a teacher— I know that colleagues used to consider anyone who stayed home sick sort of a hypochondriac. Most of us dragged ourselves to work no matter how we felt.

But that has changed in the last few years, of course, and I do respect my friends & colleagues who wish to shield themselves a bit more than I do. I resisted a fun dinner outing with friends the other day in case this thing I was struggling with at the time was something more serious.

All that to say—I fought off what I am self-diagnosing as a non-contagious, wee, little sinus infection, so I did not write one of my signature family stories last week to share on what has become my posting day—Mondays. I was busy inhaling steam over pots of boiled sage & mint, making my own chicken soup, taking slow walks in the sunshine, tree bathing at state parks, and filling myself with Vitamin C. Did you know kiwis have more Vitamin C than oranges?

[For something a little different & fun this week, let’s try to engage more. I hope you play along. In the comments, tell us about your favorite home remedies. I’ll start.]