I felt it coming.

For days, I watched my toddler suffer.  Fever, rivers of snot, coughing fits, and lethargy interspersed with fits of clingy crying. Comforting him in the wee hours, helping him get cool enough to sleep, checking his temperature all through the night, and carrying him around on my hip all day.  E felt terrible, and I ached for him as he went through all of the stages of sickness. On day four, E perked up.  He started screeching and running, happy to be alive again.  His fever disappeared, and his cough and congestion eased up.  He was most definitely on the mend.

And then…a tickle in my nose.

Ignore it, sister.  You’re totally fine.

A fiery lump swelled up in the back of my throat a couple of hours later.

It’s just seasonal allergies.  Your throat hurts because of the drainage. It’s okay.

My eyes started watering and my head filled up with cotton.

Seriously.  It’s allergies.  Maybe a migraine. Take some vitamin C and shake it off. You’re not sick. You’re just being a hypochondriac. 

My husband called from work and said he wasn’t feeling well. He was coming home early to go to bed, which he has done only one other time in the 10 years I’ve known him.  He had conracted E’s plague.

Yep, for sure, you can’t afford to be sick. Take some ibuprofen and rub some peppermint oil on your temples.  Chug another packet of vitamin C.  Perhaps a megadose of vitamin D will solve this. YOU ARE FINE.

As my son eagerly pulled every pot an pan out of the cabinets while screaming “uh-oh!” on repeat, I sank down into the sofa.

I’ll just rest for a minute.  Lay down for a sec — oh, nope.  Nope, nope, nope. Can’t breathe. Head is exploding. Is it cold in here? Why does everything look like it has a halo? Oh, god.  Is it possible to water-boarded by your own mucous and saliva??? STOP IT. NOTHING IS WRONG WITH YOU.

As I gingerly lifted my throbbing head off the couch pillows, my husband stumbled through the door.  His eyes reminded me of a stoned raccoon. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized I looked the same.  Then we stared deeply into each other’s red raccoon eyes with compassion and, okay, probably some resentment, too.  How dare we BOTH get sick at the SAME TIME? This isn’t how it’s suppose to work. This isn’t how it’s suppose to work at all. We’re a team.  We have each other’s back. For richer, for poorer.  In good times and in hardship.  IN SICKNESS. (And in health…but, whatever. That’s easy.)

Then E’s nose started running. Pitiful, quiet sobs erupted from his tiny body.  His burst of energy waned and the plague took over again. I knew just how he felt and my compassion swelled like my head.  I picked E up, feeling his feverish brow. I grabbed his water cup, his favorite cuddly blanket and stuffed animal, and sat down on the couch.  That was exactly the wrong move.  Everyone knows when your toddler feels sick, he only wants to be carried. Everywhere.  All day.  Unless he’s sleeping, which is unlikely unless you’re carrying him. Except my legs could barely support me and that bitch, Gravity, was pulling me down, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I had to lay down immediately or she would make me.

I looked around for my husband.  I called his name.  I looked in the kitchen.  The bathroom.  And then I saw it.  Our bedroom door shut tight, with labored breathing coming from the other side. I peeked in, E’s limp 300 lb body pulling hard against my arm and sliding slowly down my hip.  And there was my husband.  Asleep.

I’ve never been so jealous of anyone in my life.  And then pissed because I didn’t think of it first.

Well played, Husband.  Well played. You win, Gravity.

I took E into his bedroom, cuddled him close and dozed off for about half a minute until he jabbed his crusty finger in my eye, giggling with glee. We went back to the living room. I turned on Hulu and cued up Jimmy, setting it to continuous play.

E’s fine.  He’ll just watch and we can cuddle. Maybe we will even be able to nap together.

E slid out of my arms and off the sofa, collapsing into a screaming puddle on the floor.  And I gave in to Gravity and a good dose of self-pity, slid down to the floor and cried right along with him.  I’d like to say this was the low point of our 10 days of family sickness.  It wasn’t.  But I learned a ton about myself, my marriage, my toddler, and my standards for acceptable living.  And here it is:

SURVIVE.

• Forget about eating well.  Call out for Thai delivery and bust out the toddler snacks.  For everyone.
• Forget about dishes.  Let them pile up in the sink because washing them uses valuable energy you need for surviving.
• Forget about germ isolation.  It’s a useless battle.  Just try not to leave the house and spread the plague to other families.
• Forget about picking up toys. They will only multiply and divide and scheme to conquer you.
• Forget about sleeping. Even if your child magically sleeps, you will be kept awake by fits of coughing. Either yours or your partner’s. It’s better not to hope.
• Forget about breathing through your nose.  Pretend you’re on The Walking Dead and embrace your open-mouth zombie breathing.
• Forget about being a good parent. Just stay alive, and concentrate on helping your kid stay alive, too.
• Forget you are actually alive, while still staying alive and helping your kid stay alive. The best way to do this is chain-watching Netflix while drinking a hot toddy and eating whatever you can scavenge that requires zero thought and even less effort.
• Forget what it’s like to all be well and healthy.  Then when the day comes and everyone feels better all together, it’s like a Christmas miracle and your hopes return along with your ability to breathe through your nose and sleep without drowning in your own mucous.

How do you survive being sick?

Forever fighting that bitch, Gravity.
Carrie