I find myself grappling with a chest infection, and I suspect I might also have pneumonia, bronchitis, or even something more dramatic like whooping cough. As a self-employed mother of two, visiting the doctor ranks low on my priorities—currently around number 57—so I’m resorting to self-medication while hoping for the best.
Last night, after a particularly vigorous coughing episode, I reminisced about my pre-parenting days when being ill felt almost like a luxury. I remember waking up with a mild cold (often coinciding with a hangover) and adopting a well-rehearsed croaky voice to inform my boss that while I was eager to work, I couldn’t risk spreading my germs to colleagues. My boss would agree, and I’d revel in the unexpected day off.
This was a time before everyone was tethered to their work laptops, able to log in from home. I’d roll over and sleep in until noon, whip up a bacon sandwich for “medicinal” purposes, and indulge in daytime television—all while remaining comfortably in my pajamas. On occasion, I’d be treated to home-cooked chicken soup from my mom or a thoughtful call from my then-boyfriend, now-husband, offering to pick up cough drops and soothing tissues. Ah, how I miss those days of illness!
Now, living in Spain, I no longer have anyone to call in sick to. When I let my mom know I’m feeling unwell, she responds with a chuckle, not out of malice, but rather as if to say, “Welcome to the mom club; I’ve been waiting for you.” She has patiently awaited the day I would experience the same struggles that I once put her through. My mother reminds me that if we mothers dare to be ill, we must do so while upright. There’s no sympathy, no concern, and definitely no help. The family need not be alarmed by the notion of a mother incapable of functioning for a few days; save the dramatic reveals for when you’re truly at death’s door.
She also points out that since I managed to host my two-year-old’s birthday party just three days after giving birth to my second child, I have set the bar high for myself. My husband, meanwhile, seems unperturbed. This morning, after my relentless coughing kept the household awake (the neighbors might have thought we were harboring an angry flock of geese), he suggested I sleep in the spare room to ensure he gets his rest for a busy day ahead.
So, I carry on. After a week of hacking and wheezing, I discovered an old packet of antibiotics that the internet assures me will help with a chest infection. I’ve also taken a few swigs from a bottle of black, tar-like cough syrup that smells as if it came straight from the depths of despair. Neither remedy seems to be effective, but I am at least making an effort.
As I enter my second week of sounding like a chain smoker, I imagine my new raspy voice could be considered alluring, though in reality, it just means I can no longer hit the high notes in Disney songs, much to my kids’ relief. Earlier today, a particularly severe coughing fit hit me while I was on a call with a client. I found myself rushing to the bathroom, tears streaming down my face, struggling to breathe. My three-year-old burst in, concerned.
“Don’t worry,” I wheezed, gripping the towel rail for support. “Mommy is fine.”
“I know,” she replied, “I just want to know when dinner will be ready.”
And that, dear readers, encapsulates what it means to be ill while parenting—always on duty, even when feeling unwell.
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In summary, being a parent while facing illness can feel overwhelming, yet it’s a shared experience among mothers. The demands of family life continue regardless of our health, leaving little room for sympathy or downtime.