Second semester, freshman year of college, I got sick. Before I could make the dash down the hallway to the bathroom, I threw up on the floor.
I sat down, closed my eyes, took some deep breaths, and waited for the room to stop spinning. I opened my eyes and looked at the disgusting mess I’d made. I gagged and dry heaved.
Then came that (horrible) moment, when I knew— I was a grown-up.
As queasy and sick as I was, it was my responsibility to kneel down and wipe up my own vomit. Before my roommate saw it.
And at the time, I had no idea how relatively easy I had it.
Zen moment: Even when you think you’re all grown-up, there’s still more growing up to do.
This week, I’m sick— sicker than I’ve been in a long while. I lost seven pounds since Friday. I feel weak and brittle. Fragile. Exhausted. Today, I managed to hold down two stone-wheat crackers and five sips of ginger ale for lunch. The first food my stomach has accepted in over seventy-two hours.
The worst— despite being nauseous and malaised, is the inescapable and brutal fact that there are still two little humans who need to be fed, wiped, and entertained.
“You sick, Mommy?” Sonya asks, concern in her voice as she watches me bend over the toilet.
“Okay… can we go to the playground?”
Being sick as a kid was a holiday. Being sick as a grown-up is miserable. Being sick as a parent is even worse.
I can’t wait to be well again. Soon, I hope.