I'm not a fan of being sick. Who is a fan? No one I know.
My mom would tell me how she wished she could be sick for me when I was ill as a kid. I always asked, "why, Mom?" I didn't understand why anyone would want to be sick for someone. Even as I got older, I didn't get it. Then I had a child. Then he had his first down and out sickness.
Poor guy spiked a fever to 103.5 and 104.4 two nights in a row. Of course, the first night Rob and I freaked out. We hadn't checked out the latest on children and fevers since Mason was an infant. We immediately put him in a cool bath, gave him some children's Tylenol and called the on-call pediatric nurse. We found out 105 is the emergency temperature, although 104.4 was a bit too close for comfort.
Since he didn't get better the next day, I took him in to the doctor. VIRUS! I hate those pesky buggers. Insert an unhappy, scrunchie face here. We waited it out. The fever finally broke for good after many false alarms. Then a lovely rash appeared, and we headed back to the doctor for a prognosis I had already guessed: roseola or baby measles.
What made my heart ache the worst was how miserable Mason acted. He wanted to be held all day and didn't want to eat a thing. At night when the fever spiked, he would curl up next to me in bed and moan every thirty minutes in his sleep. I ran cool wash clothes over his arms, legs, and forehead. What else could I do besides pray and give him Tylenol? I wished I could be sick for him. Finally I understood what my mom meant all those years.
Thankfully, Mason made a full recovery. He is back to his old ways of climbing over the couch and putting his blankie in the toilet. Dear boy.
My heart goes out to all the Mommas and Daddies who have to watch their children battle terminal illnesses or lifelong diseases. You are in my prayers.
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