No more sick days

I had a stomach bug last week that hit me hard, but thankfully, the immediate impact seemed to be fairly short-lived.  I was quickly on to a couple days of crackers and toast until I could get my head around the idea of eating an actual meal. As I was propped up in bed in a semi-conscious state praying for relief I discovered that request was intermingled with an even more fervent one: “Please don’t let my husband or son get this.”  It’s then that it occurred to me: I will never have another sick day again. 

 

Sure, I stayed home from work the next day to rest, recover, and hopefully get something in my system.  But say the words “sick day,” and my mind conjures images from my childhood of laying on the couch all day watching re-runs of Saved by the Bell while my loving mother tried to keep me hydrated.  But that’s not my reality anymore.  A sacrifice of being in a committed relationship and/or being a parent is that you are never the first person in your mind.  (And if you are, you’re probably doing it wrong.)  I didn’t make some valiant and selfless decision that I would behave this way and thereby earn  human of the year recognition, it just happens naturally when you love someone.  There are people in all our lives we would take a bullet for, or a stomach bug, and consider it a privilege.

 

So inevitably, I found myself mentally cataloguing all the items I had come into contact with in the last 24 hours – clothing, surfaces, sheets, blankets.  Before I knew it, my head was lifted from the couch and I was doing internet  searches to the tune of “how to prevent spreading the stomach bug,” and “how to kill norovirus.”  Even stronger than my disdain for being sick myself was the dreadful thought of a) cleaning up after and comforting a 2-year-old who wouldn’t know what hit him, or b) losing my partner in crime to the same bout of illness that had rendered me useless to him the night before.  I actually find the image humorous – me, laying on the couch in a mismatched collection of pajama pieces, sweatshirts, and blankets, diligently researching and devising a plan to conquer this bug on behalf of the men of my household.  Clearly, a woman with a greasy ponytail donning a delightful mix of fleece and flannel must be taken seriously.

 

First on my list: wash all sheets, blankets, and clothing in the sanitary cycle on the washer and the hottest dryer setting they can stand.  Mind you, these are by far the longest cycles our beloved washer/dryer duo has to offer, so I had plenty of time to calculate my next move.  But I couldn’t do anything else before washing my hands.  And singing the alphabet while I was doing it, because that’s how long the website said it would take to kill the germs.  Oh, and as I’m walking through the kitchen to finally pour my pitiful self some ginger ale, I notice the dishwasher needs to be emptied.  If I wash my hands for long enough I’m sure it’s okay for me to get that minor chore out of the way as well.  Scrub, scrub, “A, B, C, D….”

 

It’s now time for me to rest from this exertion and try a few saltines.  But of course I can’t just sit there – there has to be something else I could be getting done.  Enter laptop.  One and a half hours later I’m caught up on email and put out a few minor work fires (smolders, really).  I then remember I have an insurance designation exam coming up in a couple weeks, so it’s probably time to crack that book.  What better time to do it than when I’m destitute in my living room with nothing else to do but wash my hands all day.  After some quality time reading up on defined benefit pension plans, the laundry needs my attention again so I’m up and about, starting another load (did I use both the living room throws last night, or just one?  Better safe than sorry…). 

 

While I’m up, I might as well get to work on the rest of the cleaning plan I had devised in my early morning strategy session.  Surely the time I spent working and studying was sufficient rest for a body running on zero fuel and a minor intake of clear liquids.  At some point I have a hazy notion that I should perhaps be napping, but it’s quickly dismissed when I remind myself all the sheets and blankets will be tied up in the wash/rinse/steam/dry cycles for the next three hours.  So I tackle the bathrooms – sinks, toilets, floors, rugs.  I empty the garbage and wipe down every surface I can think of.  Should I eat some toast or something?  Nah, maybe after I steam mop the floors.  Oh, and what’s for dinner?  I have no appetite, but the guys will want to eat.  I have some chicken in the fridge I can pre-cook so we can turn it into something later on.  I put away my mop and head to the sink to sing the alphabet before I think about touching anyone else’s food.

 

So at the end of the day when the men of my household return, I have done my best to create a germ-free sanctuary.  Will they get sick?  Probably (sigh).  I sincerely hope not, but I’m realistic about our chances.  I have done everything I can to protect them, which is really what we all do for those we love each and every day.  I am a wife.  I am a mother.  I don’t take sick days.  And man I need some hand lotion.