Yesterday, I did something incredibly out-of-the-ordinary for me: I took a sick day.
Because I can very easily work from home, and because my job involves a lot of projects where I’m responsible for creating and researching and delivering things on deadlines, I don’t normally take an actual, logged-out-of-Outlook day off if I can help it. But yesterday, my throat was so swollen that just breathing hurt, and it took all of the mental energy I had just to send my OOO emails. I Needed To Rest.
And yet. I (still) don’t exactly have a support system in Norway, so I had to get dressed and walk myself to the store to buy medicine, soups, and juice.
Is that actually true?
I have roommates–really nice ones. If I had been willing to wait for them to wake up and start moving around (or–even crazier–if I had been willing to disturb them in their rooms!), I could have asked one of them to please go to the store for me.
But god. Even with my throat threatening to swell shut, nothing feels worse than bothering someone else with a little whine for help. “Please, I need something.” Especially when that help feels somewhat urgent–”Help me right now. From the goodness of your heart, do exactly what I want, exactly when I want it.”
I really struggle with hyper-independence.
I am a nurturer by nature; the “mom friend” since my teen years. I am alarmingly good at anticipating the unspoken needs of others and tending to them–friends and lovers and loose strangers. I know when to start refilling drinks and when to bring out snacks. I can guess, with fairly high accuracy, who secretly wants to be prompted to talk about something, who needs to be distracted, and who just wants someone to sit nearby and say nothing until things feel less lonely. I love to love, to care for people.
But the care I give to myself is strictly business. I measure out what I need with the precision of a military nurse, and I give it to myself on a schedule. Two Paracet, every four hours. One nap, followed by whichever microwavable soup appears to have the highest vegetable content. Half an hour of slow-stretching, two tall glasses of water. Must read books or study language vocabulary more than I scroll on TikTok.
Every time I am sick, my heart and my mind and my sweaty-gross body miss the hardwood floors of my nana’s house. There, either on a Mr. Potatohead bean bag from the ‘80s or on a big couch next to the bay windows, I could nap on-and-off until my fever broke. No matter how long I took up the space, the living room TV stayed on whatever channel I had last turned it to. Between my naps, I would wake up to cold bottles of water left open for me and bowls of washed and cut fruit. Or plates of my favorite cheese and Triscuit crackers. My nana would wander in and place a hand on my forehead or brush my hair back. Hold my feet or read a book nearby.
Being sick reminds me that, more than anything, I want to be cared for like a child–to have my wants and needs anticipated, to have my comfort prioritized. I want to rest and know that, while I am drooling on the pillow, I am being cared for better than I can care for myself.
I wonder if this is a creature-comfort for most adults; who cared for nana when she’s been sick? Was someone around to bring her bowls of blueberries and bananas, to adjust her blankets, to read a book nearby? Does she become hateful and bitter the way I now do, frustrated to feel like she’s the only person who knows the exact type of cheese, the exact volume of the TV, the exact way to be cared for that makes her feel loved?
If I ever stopped to address that bitterness, I would understand that people don’t know these things about me because I don’t let them. I am armed with quick “no thank you” and “that’s so sweet, but I’m okay” responses. I shoot things down quickly, before I can give myself time to want them.
I reject a lot of opportunities for care because it doesn’t feel right. After all, I know how to care for me. I’ve read the user guide. I know what I need and how I need it, and even when I feel like I’m operating at half-capacity, I know that I have the wherewithal to deliver. You can’t guarantee that with someone else. What if they do it wrong? What if they change the channel, forget to let a hand linger after they’ve checked your temperature so you can feel the cool weight of their skin against yours?
What if they don’t do anything at all?
What if they feel frustrated at you for ever having asked? You insensitive, entitled child–why wouldn’t you ever stop to think that they have needs and wants, little sicknesses of their own?
The rejection of care can be a protective response, to save the vulnerable parts of you that are let down when you don’t receive the things you need. But are you responsible for engineering your own disappointment? If you just opened things up, could there be plates filled and vases blooming with the love people are waiting to give you?
Could you live with it if there wasn’t?
I truthfully don’t know. But my medicine alarm is going off in just over an hour–that’s exactly how much time I have carved out for a nap before I need to sign back into my email and flip through some things while waiting on my next soup to come out of the microwave.
I hear your ”Kenn - this one doesn’t make sense, are you writing about feeling a little bit sick or are you writing about your inescapable desire for and fear of devotion?” and I raise to you “I don’t know. I am sick, my meds started kicking in halfway through this one, and I am going to lie back down.”
See ya Sunday 🤒
it make perfect sense ❤️
feel better soon xx
❤️❤️❤️