A/N Dedicated to Aidan—and Aidan's Mommy

January 2009

Sick (And Tired)

"And tired" always followed sick. Worst beating I ever got in my life, my mother said, "I am just sick..." And I said, "And tired." I don't remember anything after that. (Bill Cosby)

There's one thing pretty much everyone can agree on: being sick sucks.

You come down with what Ev calls 'the galloping never-get-overs,' some stupid, stinking, rotten germ that had the nerve to invade your body and make you sick as a kennel full of dogs, and you spend the first three days sure you're going to die—and the last four afraid you won't. Nothing worse than that.

For fifty years, that was my way of thinking. Then I got married, had a baby and found something worse.

No, not labor and delivery.

No, it's not my husband being sick (men can be such babies sometimes—my Dad was (and still is), but Ducky, thank god, isn't that type).

It's not even Mother being sick. (She just takes to her bed and tries to prove that you can survive on cherry Nyquil, hot rum toddies and ginger ale—with the occasional chicken soup chaser.)

No, it's having a sick child.

Let me refine that—having a teething, pre-verbal sick child. A teething, pre-verbal, sick child who cries and barfs and has ugly diapers and howls and whimpers and can't tell you where it hurts. (On the first day, Ducky said, "It's the flu," and ran to the store for the baby version of Gatorade and clear juices and, when she reached the stage where food was a possibility again, said to go with the brat system. Before I had a chance to ask him who the hell was he calling a brat, he said, "Bananas, rice, applesauce, toast." Oh. That brat.)

By the second day, I was sure my beloved—ace medical examiner that he is—was wrong. I sat in the waiting room of the pediatrician's, sure my darling baby had some dreaded disease and trying to keep the other germs away from her and our version of the plague in our corner. An hour and a half later, I went home with, "It's the flu, it's going around," ringing in my ears.

By the fourth day, I had forgotten what sleep was.

I slept when Allie slept. Fifteen minutes here, twenty minutes there… with hours of miserable wakefulness in between. Ducky did the best he could, but they had caught back-to-back cases before this even started and he wasn't getting home until nine or ten. (In my sleep-deprived state, I started fuming that he was doing this on purpose. I never said it out loud, fortunately.) She was sick and tired of being sick and I was sick and tired of being tired. But it wasn't like either of us could change the situation.

Day five, I was talking to the walls. Day six, I was walking into them.

The evening of day seven it looked like Allie was finally starting to get over it… and it looked like I was finally starting to come down with it. Mother was fine and had been the whole time (Suzy had to all but tackle her to keep her from trying to go upstairs)—and they'd pulled in a relief M.E. when Ducky politely pointed out that he had worked twelve days straight, so he'd actually be home for a few days in a row.

He took one look, ordered me out of the kitchen and came upstairs in ten minutes (chicken soup and ginger ale in hand) to make sure I'd followed his instructions and actually gone to bed. I had; I felt too crappy to do otherwise.

I almost pouted when he suggested that he sleep in the spare room, but I could see the logic. He had the next four days off, and would be taking care of Allie, mother during the night and, now, apparently me, too. "If I come down ill, who is going to take care of the three of us? Mother?" Now, there's an idea to give you nightmares.

By midnight, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was so grateful we had a master suite—no stumbling down the hall to the bathroom, hoping and praying I'd make it in time. After the first hour of wearing a path in the carpet I said screw it—I dragged a blanket and pillow into the bathroom and camped there until dawn. (You know it's bad when you guzzle down water just so there will be something in there to throw up.)

When I'd made it a solid hour without worshipping the porcelain god, I figure it was safe to crawl back into bed. If there is justice in the universe… I'll die in my sleep…

"Weh…"

I closed my eyes and groaned.

"Eh… eh…" Tiny not-quite-cries, snuffly and whimpering.

Poor, sick kid… my poor little baby… I tugged at the covers; they felt like they weighed a ton. The fretful noises were getting louder. I sat on the edge of the bed, my head spinning; grabbing the nightstand, I tried to lever myself up. I didn't care if I had to goddamned crawl into her room, I was going to—

"There's my girl…"

A second voice from the baby monitor, a soft, gentle coo: Ducky.

"You and Mommy have had quite the miserable week, eh, sweet pea?" More eh-weh noises. "Being sick all this time… and two teeth trying to put in an appearance! Things have not been very rosy, have they?"

I sat back down.

"But I promise, they're going to get better straightaway. Just think—when those teeth come in, you'll have some real treats in store. Roast chicken… pot roast—oh, your mother makes a marvelous pot roast—there, I'm sure that helps. Clean diaper now and fresh jammies in just a bit, hmm?"

Good idea. It took effort, but I pulled a fresh nightgown from the dresser, changed out of my sweat-sticky gown, tossed it on the floor and all but fell back into bed.

"Well, that's not a proper bath—but I'm sure you feel a bit better, yes? Yes, of course you do, of course you do… One foot in here… one foot in here… Hmm. Who in the world designed this silly thing? The snaps don't seem to match up." He huffed a short breath. "Well, we certainly aren't going to wake up your mother to figure this out. I'm sure the two of us are bright enough to do it on our own."

I settled into the pillow, smiling as he futzed with the sleeper, muttering under his breath.

"Oh. Oh. Now I… There we go. Heavens. Perhaps we should color-code these snaps like the connections on the back of the stereo, eh?"

Not a bad idea. Hope one of us remembers it later on.

"Do you know who bought that sleeper for you? Your Aunt Charlotte did. I know, I know, she prefers Charlie… but she doesn't mind that I call her Charlotte, and Charlotte is such a pretty name… You're a very lucky girl, so many aunts and—drat it, I just saw that bottle—oh, there it is. Now, I know this is dreadfully dull stuff. But it has the right measure of chemicals to keep your electrolytes in balance, keep you properly hydrated—"

I snuggled into the pillow and smiled; watch out, kid, there's gonna be a test later on.

I recognized the creak; he was settling into Gamma's old rocking chair. "And I think in an hour or so we'll try some applesauce in that tummy. Mmh? Does that sound like a good idea?"

There was a gurgling giggle, a sound I hadn't heard in what felt like forever.

"I thought you'd agree. Now, you just settle—oh, not to worry, it's washable… There you go. I know, I told you it's terribly boring—but be glad things have improved over the years. You don't have to eat Pablum. Heavens! When I was an intern, there was one young lad who flung it about the room with great abandon. The matron didn't find some of it until the next day; it had hardened so that it had to be sanded off. No, I promise, it's the truth. Sanded. So—this may be boring, but it's not vile…" No more talking, just the soft squeak-creak of the rocker for a minute or two. "That's my girl, just drink it down…" Another silence, broken only by the rocker—then, very softly from the speaker I heard… wasn't sure… yes; singing.

"You are my sunshine… my only sunshine…
You make me happy… when skies are gray…
You'll never know, dear… how much I love you…
Please don't take… my sunshine… away…"

As I fell back asleep, suddenly I felt much better.