Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Buy me a ticket on the porcelain bus

The bad news: I caught G's stomach flu
The good news: I lost six pounds in three days
The bad news: I feel like I've been hit by a truck
The good news: There is no more good news

My father likes to say that you know you're really sick when you go from being afraid you'll die to being afraid you won't. That accurately sums up my state of mind as I slumped on the bathroom tiles at 2:45 Sunday morning. It seems awfully unjust, since I spent the entire week between Christmas and New Year's being sick as well, but you can't argue with germs. Well, you can, but it's not very satisfying, and then they end up winning anyway, the little buggers.

G was a champion on Sunday, the day I was sickest. She was mostly over the virus by then, and she spent the entire morning playing on her own (not an easy task for her), watching movies, and drawing pictures. Around noon, I asked her grandmother to come pick her up for a while -- she was being as good as gold, but I felt guilty about lying there on the couch while she basically looked after herself. To my surprise, she had something to say about that.

"I want to stay with you, Mom!" she insisted.

"G, I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm a wreck. You'll be much better off spending the day with Grandma. She'll take you out to lunch."

"No, I want to stay here! I'll make my own sandwich and everything!"

"But I can't play with you."

"You can too -- you played Uno with me while you were lying down -- and you talked to me --"

She was starting to tear up and sniffle at this point, which made me feel even guiltier, but I settled for the lesser of the two guilts and sent her off with Grandma anyway. I didn't realize until later that evening, when she asked out of the blue what she would do without me (that is, if something happened to me), that the poor kid had probably been afraid to leave in case I died while she was gone. After all, if your father can die in the other room while you're watching TV one Sunday morning, who's to say the same thing can't happen to your mother, especially if she's already sick? It makes sense if you're eight. Hell, it makes sense if you're thirty-five.

Anyway, I told G that she had a huge family who would take care of her if I wasn't around, but that she didn't need to worry about it because I was planning to live to be 100. She said "How about 101?" and I said "Okay," and that seemed to be the end of it. It makes me wonder what other sorts of scary thoughts are in her head, though.

1 comment:

writermeeg said...

Oh, V. This made me tear up. You handled it beautifully, as always. Feel better, amiga!!