Viruses, Brothers and Superheroes

To be a mother, you know this hard truth. Motherhood is not for the squeamish. And nothing tests your mettle like sick kids. I would a hundred times rather be sick myself. I don’t say that out of any sort of nobility. It’s very self interested. I’m terrified when my kids are sick. My mind first jumps to the epidemic that will ensue when they all get whatever the sickness is, then my mind takes another leap to the future worsening of their symptoms and the fact that they’ll eventually be in the hospital on IV. Of course this has never happened but you never know. This might be the time.

So Braeden got sick. He had a fever and was needy and miserable. He wanted to sleep in my bed and kneed me in the back then ran to the bathroom to throw up…and in very Braeden like fashion…didn’t make it in time. It’s not a good moment when that happens. I’m not the long-suffering mother I aspire to be. I’m just plain not happy. It’s not really lecture time though. It’s only time for clean up.

The next morning I consulted the Internet. I read the difference between a cold and the flu. I started wondering why it’s “a” cold but “the” flu. Articles interest me. Why in England, for example, do they say, “Going to hospital” when in America we always call it “the hospital”?

I’m masterful at getting lost on a tangent but I got back to matters at hand and the article I was reading indicated calling the doctor for flu symptoms. It seemed like we were there so I called. I told the receptionist all the symptoms. She wondered what exactly his temperature was and I admitted I don’t have a thermometer. It’s one of those dark inadequate mother facts about me that I’d like to keep quiet but it keeps coming up. I could of course buy a thermometer but it seems like either they have a fever or they don’t. Does the actual temperature really matter? I guess so because they always ask me.

I asked the nurse if there was anything the doctor could DO if he did have the flu. Why drag my sick boy to the doctor and pay the $25 co-pay for nothing, right? She said, “I can’t diagnose over the phone.” I understood that but I again asked, “IF he does have the flu, is there anything the doctor can do?” Her tone was getting a little icy by then and she said, “I can’t know that because I can’t diagnose over the phone.” Fine. Sign me up.

So I bundled poor Braeden up. The kid who argues that he doesn’t need a jacket because he’s never cold wore a long sleeve t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and his coat. He said, “I’m still cold.” We went to the doctor. He cracked a tiny smile when the nurse told him he was now 5 feet even but when she said, “So you don’t feel well?” he gave her a surly, “No.” The doctor poked and prodded and said that it was viral and there was nothing she could do. Braeden grumbled the whole way back to the van about what a “big fat waste of time” that was. It was but I was trying to be positive. “At least you don’t have pneumonia or strept throat or an ear infection.” Braeden usually leaves the scornfulness to Emma but he snarled, “Why would I even have any of those things anyway?” I didn’t know. But hey, he didn’t.

I got Braeden home and gave him some grape juice and Advil and he got more and more happy as the day progressed. He was chipper by dinnertime and ate his dinner and remarked about how much better he felt and I was happy.

Mark was a sneezing sniffling coughing mess. He felt a little warm. I didn’t feel disconsolate this time though. Braeden had recovered so quickly I had high hopes. I put Mark to bed early and he was almost instantly asleep. At 3:00 Braeden came in to wake me up to tell me Mark was coughing. I went in to comfort Mark and gave him some Dimetapp. (I’m a big believer in medicine.)

At 4:00, Braeden was again by my bedside, telling me that Mark was throwing up. I said the first thing that comes to every mother’s mind when she’s told her child is throwing up at 4:00 a.m. “Where is he?” Braeden said he was in the bathroom. There was Mark, kneeling neatly in front of the toilet. Now why couldn’t Braeden do that? I sent Braeden to bed with my gratitude and comforted Mark and cleaned him up and held him on my lap for a while. Sweet Mark. There’s just the tiniest part of me that likes it when he’s sick. He’s so snuggly and calm. I told him that he did such a great job making it to the bathroom. Mark always talks in capital letters but he said in a small lowercase voice, “Braeden ran with me.” It’s a heart melting image for me to picture…bleary eyed Braeden, hustling his sick brother down the hall so he can make it in time.

So maybe that’s what Braeden needs, a big brother to run with him. I guess it’s something we all could use.

Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero. --Marc Brown