I played the dutiful Florence Nightingale role for a good 10 days before I started losing the plot. My patience (sparse on the top at the best of times) started wearing thin and I began getting properly annoyed with my collective lumps of useless human who needed hydration, medication, basic nourishment delivered with a care and kindness that I just can’t muster on demand, certainly not with any credible consistency.
When every member of my family had coughed up bits of their lung, vomited and thrashed around in a feverish fugue with no pallor or appetite and endured a prolonged state of feeling shiteness, I thought we’d seen the back of a particularly nasty bug. I sent the beast packing with strict instructions not to bloody return – alone or with its evil creepy little friends. We then proceeded to have a lovely Easter weekend.
Monday
Easter Monday dawned and that’s when I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. This is not an unfamiliar feeling I must confess. When I’ve klapped the wine too hard the day before, I can wake feeling slightly tender in the cranial region with a throbbing behind my eyes. And droogies like no tomorrow. But this wasn’t that. This was something else. Something else entirely. A beast that not even two paracetamol, a litre of water chased by a strong cuppa, fresh air and a pair of sunglasses could vanquish. Not even close. I skirted around the edge of the day mindful that there was a tarantula wrestling with my immune system. I’ve had three kids for goodness’ sake. I can handle this. Or so I thought.
Tuesday
I slept fitfully on Monday night. My throat on fire. Hot and then cold. Tossing and turning. Needing water every five minutes. Then needing the loo. Tuesday dawned. As it does. Just after Monday. Every blady week. Like clockwork. Set your watch by it. The day was my husband’s first day back at the office after his near-death by man-flu. There was no question, he had to go in. And so I crawled out of bed like an abused dog. Limp, cringing and wretched. Waiting for the next kick. Fortunately I had a friend and her little girl coming over and so I simply had no choice but to go through the rituals of getting up, getting dressed and at least dipping my toe in near-normal. We had a great day at the park though – the sunshine and brisk wind was a salve to the sickness lurking within. I pushed through Tuesday and when my husband arrived home that evening, I escaped to the serene sanctuary of my bed, feverish hallucinations dancing around my room where I didn't even manage to draw the curtains before I succumbed to my coma, slack-mouthed and fully-clothed.
Wednesday
My body surfaced to consciousness before my head. My shoulders literally had to peel my head from a crevice in my pillow. I simply had to wake up though. I had work to do. Not just my children. Yes that work too. But other work. For a company who pay me. Not in bear hugs, slobbery kisses and gappy-toothed grins. In actual money you can take to the bank. As such, they expect work to be delivered. I showered with legs like jelly. Got a lift to the train station, bought a ticket and boarded the train. The next 60 minutes were like when Bridget Jones eats those mushrooms on that beach in Thailand. Except not as funny. But just with the blurry, cringe-worthy, off-her-face bits. I felt completely out of it. The scenery whizzed by, people got on and off the train, it chugged along. The entire trip merged into a weird psycadelic haze. I stepped off at Richmond and had to sit down on a bench like an old person before I consulted the attendants three times on how to catch my connection to Hammersmith. I have made this journey many times, but on that day it was like my first trip. I lurched into the meeting, glass-eyed and wild-haired. I know I spoke. Not sure what I said. I have vague notes that I can mostly decipher. But pretty much most of those hours are lost in an ether of “I have no idea”. I was swept home in sea of urgent commuters. I stepped off the train in Windsor and walked home along the river watching the swans veer in and out of my field of vision like white-cloaked vampires. I sought sleep with a pillow over my throbbing head. I dreamt of an army of swans riding the train, their ugly black feet clawing the seats with their long necks craning out of the window, eyes slanted and beaks opening and closing as if conversing with the wind.
Wednesday
My body surfaced to consciousness before my head. My shoulders literally had to peel my head from a crevice in my pillow. I simply had to wake up though. I had work to do. Not just my children. Yes that work too. But other work. For a company who pay me. Not in bear hugs, slobbery kisses and gappy-toothed grins. In actual money you can take to the bank. As such, they expect work to be delivered. I showered with legs like jelly. Got a lift to the train station, bought a ticket and boarded the train. The next 60 minutes were like when Bridget Jones eats those mushrooms on that beach in Thailand. Except not as funny. But just with the blurry, cringe-worthy, off-her-face bits. I felt completely out of it. The scenery whizzed by, people got on and off the train, it chugged along. The entire trip merged into a weird psycadelic haze. I stepped off at Richmond and had to sit down on a bench like an old person before I consulted the attendants three times on how to catch my connection to Hammersmith. I have made this journey many times, but on that day it was like my first trip. I lurched into the meeting, glass-eyed and wild-haired. I know I spoke. Not sure what I said. I have vague notes that I can mostly decipher. But pretty much most of those hours are lost in an ether of “I have no idea”. I was swept home in sea of urgent commuters. I stepped off the train in Windsor and walked home along the river watching the swans veer in and out of my field of vision like white-cloaked vampires. I sought sleep with a pillow over my throbbing head. I dreamt of an army of swans riding the train, their ugly black feet clawing the seats with their long necks craning out of the window, eyes slanted and beaks opening and closing as if conversing with the wind.
Thursday
I rolled out of bed like a lump of dough. Collected my bleating boy-child from his cot. Stumbled downstairs into a kitchen too bright and sunny for my senses. Proffered Easter eggs to my children for breakfast. Made my way to the couch. Covered my head with a cushion and waited for the effects of the sugar high to kick in. It doesn’t take long. Running around, screaming like they're being murdered, clubbing each other like they want to murder - until the humourous becomes hurtful – as it usually does. I actually look forward to when the crying happens. It means the game is over and I’m the comforter, not the baddie who broke up all the fun. At lunchtime, I hauled out more Easter eggs before collapsing on the couch in my customary foetal position. It was only when they’d stripped naked to go outside and play with the hosepipe and I was seriously considering letting them go, I mean 10 degrees isn’t that cold is it, I called for back-up. I phoned my husband and informed him that he had two options. The first involved an ambulance and the emergency room. Neither would be for me. The second was to come home. The man is wise. He came home early. My fever broke early that evening and through a fog of sickly semi-consciousness, I could finally feel that things were in fact going to be ok. I was going to make it. We were all going to make it.
Friday
Still a little tender with a pall of hangover sitting on my head, but feeling a lot stronger, I ventured into the great outdoors with my friend and our large brood of children for a picnic and stroll. Fresh air and sunshine do wonders for the woozy-brained and wonky. And that's me on a good day. Even better when recovering from an ebola-esque virus that nuked our entire family.
Mums don’t get sick. Well that’s according to my daughter. We’re always there. To do the washing – the most remarkable of my maternal skills if you read my son’s Mother’s Day card - to make the food, to clean. At the peak of my fever I asked my little girl to lay her lovely little cold hands on my raging forehead because the sensation of cool was heavenly. She rested her hands on my sizzling skin for a while and then she said, “but Mummy’s just don’t get poorly, so I don’t understand what is going on here.” I said to her “Mummy’s do get sick sweetheart. We’re only human after all.”
To which she replied, “But you’re not just a human, are you? You’re a Mummy. ” I blacked out for a bit then, but apparently I told her that yes I wasn't just a Mummy. I was a swan.
During this past week of feverish flights of fancy in my head, I’ve thought of a lot of things. Cool blue swimming pools, ice packs, lying in soft rolling green meadows, vampire swans, swans on trains. I’ve also thought that no matter how much money you have, how much domestic help - when you’re in a death-grip with the lurgies and feel like the dog’s bollocks, there is nothing you can do except ride it out and hope to come out of the other side. Stronger and more swan-like. Because let's face it and I've said it before many times, those swans are not the gentle, graceful little creatures we like to think. They're robust creatures, made of some seriously tough stuff. They can take over the world. Forget the triffids. Or the vampires. Wait for the swans. They're coming for us. Just wait.
* an unspecified or indeterminate illness.
* an unspecified or indeterminate illness.
