I have been fighting off my own fevers for six weeks, on and off. Middle child has it this time, a high one that won’t back off. I have to double dose (two kinds of medicine) him every four hours, and he has had 10 ounces of juice, a mug of herbal tea, a few ounces of cocoa, and a bit of peach kuga and cheesebread. A handful of food. Enough liquid to fill a medium drink cup. That is all.
In the middle of the afternoon, when he had hit 102.5 degrees again, I called my father and informed him of the situation, that we would not be coming to Thanksgiving at a relation of his wife, who lives an hour from us.
He joked that we should hold all holidays in hospital, since I miss all of them from illness.
I don’t mind. I don’t feel so good. I am tired from getting up in the middle of the night to comfort a confused and shrieking child. Tired from being woken up early by the same child burning with fever. I got nothing done today, besides working. I am lucky my work allows me to bring a sick child and set him up in an empty conference room. The house is not organized. I am simply too tired.
I have to decide, do I push myself when I am exhausted, or do I try to rest? I don’t know. I just have to work double time later to make up for what I left undone, if I rest. I am unsure if all this recent illness has to do with exhaustion or not. I don’t think it is about stress.
My mother has some chronic illnesses. Her clinical depression amplifies them, I am sure. She spent much of my formative years in bed after work each day. She told me that a few years after she kicked me out that she no longer went to her bed, even, but would lay next to the sliding glass doors and just look outside.
I don’t want to end up like that. I want to be with my kids, available.