Being Sick
July 12, 2000
My mother was a hypochondriac and while there are some sad and awful things about someone being a hypochondriac, I loved it. The best part was staying home from school—staying home was nice. On a snowy day, after looking out the kitchen window for a while, I would open the oven door and prop my feet up, watching the flames lick the gas grill while I fell asleep.
Staying home sick from school meant grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and tomato soup. My mom simply didn’t believe in the modern world. So, among our luxuries, we didn’t have a toaster. We toasted our bread in the oven so it was hard and then we had cold butter chunks on it because, she said, “I don’t like rancid butter.” I thought that was swell—the burst of flavor when you hit a cold chunk of butter.
My “Mama,” as we sometimes called her, believed that when you felt bad, you stayed home and you were sick and being sick was a pleasure and an honor. You were sanctified when you got sick. Illness was a special state of being that super-ceded and suspended all other states. We couldn’t go to anything, couldn’t do anything, couldn’t finish our homework, couldn’t get our hair cut or go to the doctor’s (odd) or take a bath or lift anything. We had to tuck ourselves in bed and get a good book and sleep a lot. Rest was the key to health.
My mom LOVED resting in a way that no one else could love resting, in a way that required a hot sultry humid climate where people could take care of you. (She was from Louisiana.) It was essential to have a tall glass of “coke-cola” dripping with sweat. It was a complete state of obliteration.
I have been told and I believe that in the last few years of her life, my great-grandmother completely ran her house from her bed. Her groceries delivered to her door, she yelled out the window at the lawn “boy” and ordered the people who cooked and cleaned for her.
Being “sick” if you’re a hypochondriac is not really sick. It is just a way to simplify and clarify things. My mother’s measure of pain was this: if it hurt when you lowered your chin to your chest, you were sick.
Sickness was interesting to us. How much we blew our nose, how much we coughed or ached were subjects of serious, lengthy conversations. We believed being sick was a way of life and an art form.
We had “the flu” mainly, in its many forms. A little sniffle or a tiny headache meant something was coming on. It could also mean that we were just feeling bad and didn’t want to get up. (That was its principle meaning.) Our great belief was that the way we felt when we woke up in the morning meant something, something awful. The terrible way we felt at breakfast after two hot fudge sundaes? “The flu.” The way we felt after closing “Gone With the Wind” with a sigh at 3 a.m.? “The flu.” The Monday morning after a wild weekend with our friends? “The flu.”
The family doctor would come to our house at night after work. (His kids all went to private schools and he drove a wonderful car.) We would get all fixed up in the nice bedroom, he’s take our temperature and we’d try to look really sick because, after all, he’d driven over especially to see us.
I got pneumonia once and really was sick and there arose the problem of competition. If I were really sick, would the rest of the not so sick look bad? I faked feeling better so I wouldn’t make anyone feel bad. I could recognize that a 104 temperature was an unfair advantage. But when I got my appendix out, it was a great project because it involved going to the hospital and we could all be sick by association because of its magnitude.
I have great memories of being sick. I think everyone would feel better if they’d just take a day off every no and then and have the flu.
My mother was a hypochondriac and while there are some sad and awful things about someone being a hypochondriac, I loved it. The best part was staying home from school—staying home was nice. On a snowy day, after looking out the kitchen window for a while, I would open the oven door and prop my feet up, watching the flames lick the gas grill while I fell asleep.
Staying home sick from school meant grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and tomato soup. My mom simply didn’t believe in the modern world. So, among our luxuries, we didn’t have a toaster. We toasted our bread in the oven so it was hard and then we had cold butter chunks on it because, she said, “I don’t like rancid butter.” I thought that was swell—the burst of flavor when you hit a cold chunk of butter.
My “Mama,” as we sometimes called her, believed that when you felt bad, you stayed home and you were sick and being sick was a pleasure and an honor. You were sanctified when you got sick. Illness was a special state of being that super-ceded and suspended all other states. We couldn’t go to anything, couldn’t do anything, couldn’t finish our homework, couldn’t get our hair cut or go to the doctor’s (odd) or take a bath or lift anything. We had to tuck ourselves in bed and get a good book and sleep a lot. Rest was the key to health.
My mom LOVED resting in a way that no one else could love resting, in a way that required a hot sultry humid climate where people could take care of you. (She was from Louisiana.) It was essential to have a tall glass of “coke-cola” dripping with sweat. It was a complete state of obliteration.
I have been told and I believe that in the last few years of her life, my great-grandmother completely ran her house from her bed. Her groceries delivered to her door, she yelled out the window at the lawn “boy” and ordered the people who cooked and cleaned for her.
Being “sick” if you’re a hypochondriac is not really sick. It is just a way to simplify and clarify things. My mother’s measure of pain was this: if it hurt when you lowered your chin to your chest, you were sick.
Sickness was interesting to us. How much we blew our nose, how much we coughed or ached were subjects of serious, lengthy conversations. We believed being sick was a way of life and an art form.
We had “the flu” mainly, in its many forms. A little sniffle or a tiny headache meant something was coming on. It could also mean that we were just feeling bad and didn’t want to get up. (That was its principle meaning.) Our great belief was that the way we felt when we woke up in the morning meant something, something awful. The terrible way we felt at breakfast after two hot fudge sundaes? “The flu.” The way we felt after closing “Gone With the Wind” with a sigh at 3 a.m.? “The flu.” The Monday morning after a wild weekend with our friends? “The flu.”
The family doctor would come to our house at night after work. (His kids all went to private schools and he drove a wonderful car.) We would get all fixed up in the nice bedroom, he’s take our temperature and we’d try to look really sick because, after all, he’d driven over especially to see us.
I got pneumonia once and really was sick and there arose the problem of competition. If I were really sick, would the rest of the not so sick look bad? I faked feeling better so I wouldn’t make anyone feel bad. I could recognize that a 104 temperature was an unfair advantage. But when I got my appendix out, it was a great project because it involved going to the hospital and we could all be sick by association because of its magnitude.
I have great memories of being sick. I think everyone would feel better if they’d just take a day off every no and then and have the flu.
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