I committed the cardinal sin of motherhood the other day by becoming sick. I know! How could I have possibly been so selfish, so uncaring, so clearly unconcerned with the needs of my husband and children? And I didn’t even give anyone a heads-up. On Tuesday I was fine, and then on Wednesday, I was down for the count. My apologies, family.
I think I had typhoid fever. That may sound melodramatic, but I had just taken my first dose of the live vaccine (headed to Southeast Asia in a few weeks; hopefully, plenty of exotic tales forthcoming!), and in rare cases, one can experience symptoms. For me, it was nausea, fatigue, headache and intense stomach cramps. At my lowest point, I was dry-heaving in my oldest son’s disgusting toilet, and then crawling my way back upstairs to bed, only to writhe in pain every time my intestines seized.
By the second day of my inconsiderate illness, I was able to remain downstairs on the couch. My kids would stare at me and inquire as to my “condition,” then promptly ask if I had gone to the grocery or what was for dinner. When I merely glared back, pale and weak, their general response was one of exasperation and a “Jeeze, mom, you picked a terrible time to catch a bug, I’m hungry!” expression.
Doo wasn’t much better. Sure, I got the requisite spousal “there, there’s,” but no true sympathy. The prevalent atmosphere at Chez Wilson was definitely, “Could you please hurry up and get better? We have a summer to enjoy!”
My apologies, family, for succumbing to typhoid. It won’t happen again.