Like many men, I am a completely useless whinging mess when I am sick. The best people (I mean my beloved family) can hope for is that I will be sick enough not to talk too much, meaning the net amount of whinging might decline as I do. Some context is important here – my almost-six-year-old son, Samuel, is sick as a dog right now. He has the flu, and I don’t mean a bad cold. Last night he woke three times. Once with the sweats and burning hot, twice with the chills and the shakes. My beloved K knows these symptoms (she is a nurse after all) and knows how to handle them. She has seen plenty of worse things. I, on the other hand, do not have the same experience and therefore I find a cold boy (my son, no less) shaking uncontrollably at 1.40am a little unnerving. It is one of those things where you have to repress the little voice that squeaks “this is serious, call and ambulance” and do the sensible thing, which was to grab the neurofen because at that hour he was able to have another dose. Then it was back rubbing, neck rubbing and pats on the head until he managed to slide back in to an uncomfortable sleep.
My only upside is that, at this stage, I am not as sick as he is. I’m still going to work today, but by tomorrow it might be a different story. We’ll see. For the record, Child A has a cold but nothing that seems more serious at this stage and my Beloved K has escaped unscathed (she had a flue shot – smart lady!).
Must go….got to pick up that lung I just hoched on to the floor.