My memories of being sick as a child are strangely happy ones. When I had a cold or the flu, it seemed to bring out the best in my mother.
She sat on the edge of the bed and took my temperature by placing her hand on my forehead. She didn’t use a thermometer.
“You need liquids,” she’d say. “How about some tea? Seven-up?”
When I turned those down, she brought me a glass of chipped ice.
“Just suck on a tiny piece,” she’d say. “You’ll feel better.”
When I felt nauseous, she’d say,
“You need food. How about some chicken soup? Saltines?”
When I turned those down, she brought me dry toast cut in triangles.
“Just nibble on one piece,” she’d say, “You’ll feel better.”
I didn’t believe her but I nibbled on one piece and started to feel better. My mother wasn’t always the greatest mother but she was always the greatest nurse.
I didn’t appreciate this until I grew up and had to nurse myself.
Chipped ice?
Toast cut in triangles?
Not a chance.
Instead, I lie here feeling feverish and nauseous, imagining her sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You’ll feel better,” she says and I believe it.
