The House of the Sick

Squealer has been sick throughout this week. Influenza A. “That’s the most contagious kind!” the doctor’s assistant informed us in a chirpy voice. He’s been home all week, feeling pretty beat down. When Scooter arrived home Tuesday, he was lying on the couch with his eyes closed, but not asleep. Just feeling awful. Scooter said “It really doesn’t feel the same around here without Squealer running around destroying everything.”

Indeed.

But she’s right of course, the house of the sick doesn’t feel right for the whole family. Whenever one of us goes down, things are out of sync until they revive. I would expect that to be true for the parents, but its interesting to see that its true for the kids as well. There is a certain stability, a routine we fall into. When the family is firing on only four, instead of five cylinders, it’s not the same.

I’ve been reminded this week of one time when I was sick, around the age of five or six…exactly the age of Squealer right now. I had some severe illness that prevented me from holding down any liquid, and I remember being desperately thirsty. For some reason beyond my understanding, Mom and Dad wouldn’t give me any water. I couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) connect the dots between drinking liquid, and then ummm….undrinking it a few minutes later.

So I recall sneaking out of bed one night and beginning the process of crawling down the hall to the bathroom. I knew that a cup of cool, cool water awaited. But shortly before I reached the oasis, my father silently walked up behind me, scooped me up and carried me back to bed. He again patiently explained why I couldn’t have any water. I wonder how many of these evenings Squealer will remember. The way he's feeling, I hope not many.