in sickness & in health

Thursday, I had an intestinal "malfunction" of sorts.  As I blinked to consciousness, my mind quietly whispered uncertainty.  Something was amiss, but I preferred to doubt.
Too many things to do.
Kids to get off to school.
People counting on me.
This gnawing feeling had to be a fluke.
 My insides, however, were mounting nothing short of a mutiny.   

My daughter began preparing her lunch in the glow of the kitchen, the outside still dark with night (thank you very much daylight-savings time), and I began to sense urgency.  A medical "red sky at morning" was dawning on the horizon of my day.  I was on borrowed time, because something was going down in a hurry, and I needed to get these kids on their way before it all broke loose.

***

Moms dread sickness.  Not just for the illness, but the incapacity that comes in tow.  Viruses don't give you a "heads up."  They appear, anywhere, anytime.  In good clothes.  On vacation.  When you've agreed to chaperon a school field trip.  A mother doesn't have much room for "down time," should she be stricken, especially when little ones are bobbling precariously about the home.  I've had anywhere from one to three preschoolers at home with me for twelve years now.  These opportunists require an adult at full operating capacity because they are always hungry or inflicting personal injury.  They do not understand suffering on the part of an ill parent, except to say, it is the ideal opportunity to play in the dog water or try on makeup or yank a container of yogurt from the refrigerator onto the kitchen floor, where they will happily eat and finger paint the stainless steel appliances.

***

Already squirming to the discomfort of what was building, I drove those kids to the school that morning like Danica Patrick meeting a bomb squad.  Van doors opened at a rolling stop and they fell to the curb, backpacks softening the landing.   And, as I dispensed of right-of-way etiquette at each of the seventeen four-way-stops between the school and my home, I broke into a cold sweat, ready to meet my maker.

Although I felt significantly better after the "purge," I wobbled to a vertical position to muster the strength to go to work, collect my son from an overnight excursion to his grandparent's house, and find my way back to a sofa with my name on it.

The mind has incredible will when necessary.  It can fixate.  It senses desperation to fulfill a goal or meet a deadline, and will commit to the pursuit of it's prey.  Distract the body to empower the mind...

Must get to work.

Driving, unfortunately, leaves the mind vacant, restless.

Must use music to keep forward momentum.

Could have tried talk radio...but a topic like the children of Charles Dickens may not be enough to deflect the physical discomfort, nor the mental stress of not knowing if my intestines had reached a truce with my body.

I landed on "18 Wheels on a Big Rig" and sang loud and proud to a song I hadn't heard in probably 20 years.  (I totally nailed the Roman numerals part, by the way.)   My brain was functioning on another level now, ignoring the invasion, ready to complete the task at hand.

What do you do when left alone to tend children when you need to sleep?
or curl into fetal position?
or camp on the bathroom floor for awhile?

I think, in all the years, I've only had the need for adult reinforcement twice....maybe three times.  Each time required an infant to be delivered to my den of infection to be nursed and whisked away to avoid further contamination.  Otherwise, any illness to which I have fallen victim required creative management of any children stuck with me, while I lay as motionless as possible.  The TV gets props here.  When kids don't get a lot of screen time, the glow becomes a magnet to their impressionable brains.

This time, I had jumped a hurdle to which I wasn't even aware.  I saw how far I had come in these twelve, short years.  (Yeah, I'm being sarcastic, but grateful.)  When my middle-school-aged daughter arrived home minutes after I did, I briefed her on the situation.  Somewhere along the line, she had developed the ability to become a pretty stellar care-giver.  I never once had a reason to peel myself from the sofa to make a snack or break up an altercation between siblings.  With an appreciative smile, I relaxed against the understanding that my kids were going to survive in her care.  Better yet, I was going to survive in her care.

Of course, there was some aftermath.  Food had wandered out of the kitchen.  The TV did become a hypnotic presence.  The candy stash was breached.  However, the backpacks were hung and homework did get done and snack time didn't become a brawl over the Cheddar Bunnies, so dear o'le dad had only to make dinner for the kids while I entered a coma until morning....

Perhaps, at this stage in my life, my insides can melt, and I can actually indulge myself in 12 hours of uninterrupted recovery.  Who knew that succumbing to an illness could become such a fulfilling accomplishment?