We think of only one person when we're sick...

I remember writing this 5 years ago ...

I can't recall when and how it started but it has been like a yearly routine for me and her.

Asthmatic bronchitis is what I was referring to --- when I ran a fever, missed school, spoke in a deep, gravelly voice, the incessant coughing, the long sleepless nights, the shaking chills. What I remember the most was my mother.

I remember how she served me slices of ripened apple, how pleasantly and deliciously cool each slivered piece tasted sliding down my swollen throat. I remember that she helped keep me on a precise medicine schedule.

I remember her concern and worry, her watchful eye and keen ear, her sturdy presence in the doctor’s office as she stood by my side. Now, I am no longer a child, after all.

I have being absent in school. I and my siblings were only allowed to miss school if we were running a mean fever or sporting measles or chicken pox. My mother is extremely warm, a bit strict, but gentle — she’s the sort you want to nestle into, like a thick blanket, with a hot mug of coffee.  But, she’s also an ardent believer in, “Stand up!  Keep moving!  You’re fine!”  She powers through every illness, muscle ache, heartbreak, and ailment with such powerful resolve, like she cannot and will not be stopped by anything, least of all herself.

She’s the woman who told my sister and me, “Single life is better, married life is complicated!” with a laugh. 

Well, here I am, nearly 25. Not married. And sick again.

And I’ve kicked the fever that flattened me this past weekend.  My glands aren’t too swollen. But…well… Right now, I want to hear her voice, telling me, “Shhhh…”, saying, “You’re alright, You’re alright.”

I want her to peel me an orange, and sit with me, as I nibble on this notion that it’ll all be better…soon enough.