I find myself grappling with a chest infection, and I can’t help but wonder if it could be something more severe—perhaps pneumonia or bronchitis. As a self-employed mom of two, making a trip to the doctor is far down my priority list, so I’m opting for self-medication and hoping for the best.
Last night, as I suffered through an intense coughing fit, I reminisced about my carefree pre-kids days when being sick felt like a rare indulgence. I recall waking up with a slight sniffle, usually accompanied by a hangover, and using my best raspy voice to inform my boss that, despite my eagerness to work, I couldn’t risk spreading my germs to my colleagues. My boss would agree, and I’d relish the unexpected day off.
Ah, those were the days before remote work made it possible to “log in” from home 24/7. Back then, I could roll over and sleep—what a luxury!—until noon, treat myself to a bacon sandwich (for medicinal purposes, of course), and binge-watch daytime TV without ever changing out of my pajamas. Occasionally, my mom would drop by with homemade chicken soup, or my then-boyfriend-now-husband would call from the pharmacy to offer cough drops and soothing tissues. Oh, how I miss those times!
Now, living in Spain, I don’t have anyone to call in sick to, and my mom’s soup would likely arrive too cold if she attempted to bring it over. When I tell her I’m under the weather, she laughs—not in a cruel way, but more like, “Welcome to the mom club; I’ve been waiting for you to join.” She has been patiently waiting for 30 years to witness the trials that I once put her through. Her sage advice? As mothers, we can only fall ill while remaining upright. We receive neither sympathy nor assistance, and scaring our family with the thought of being mother-less is reserved for when we’re truly on the brink of death.
She also reminded me that ever since I organized a birthday party for my two-year-old just three days after giving birth, I’ve climbed to an impressive “Superwoman” status from which there’s no descent. My husband, on the other hand, seems less than concerned. This morning, after my relentless coughing kept everyone awake—our neighbors likely wondering if we were nurturing a flock of disgruntled geese—he suggested I sleep in the spare room to ensure his own rest.
So, I soldier on. After a week of coughing and retching, I’ve dug up an old packet of antibiotics that the internet says should help with a chest infection. I’ve also choked down some dubious black syrup that looks like it was harvested straight from the depths of hell. Neither remedy seems effective, but at least I’m making an effort.
Now entering my second week of sounding like a raspy old man, I fantasize that my husky voice has a certain allure. In reality, it just means I can no longer hit the high notes on Disney songs, much to my children’s relief. This afternoon, during a particularly harsh coughing fit, I was on the phone with a client while my vegetables boiled over and my three-year-old shouted from the bathroom that she was done.
After hanging up, I hurried to the bathroom, doubled over, tears streaming down my face, struggling to breathe. My five-year-old rushed in, concern etched across her face.
“Don’t worry,” I gasped, gripping the towel rail for support. “Mommy is fine.”
“I know,” she replied. “I just want to know when dinner will be ready.”
And that, my friends, is what it truly means to be ill while parenting—always standing tall amidst the chaos.
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Summary:
This reflective piece explores the challenges of being unwell while juggling the responsibilities of parenthood. The author reminisces about the carefree days of illness pre-children and highlights the harsh reality of being a mother who must keep going despite feeling unwell. The humorous anecdotes illustrate the unique struggles parents face when sick, emphasizing the need for resilience.