H1N1 and me

Sport came home Monday from school feeling poorly: fever, congestion, and vomiting. It was inevitable, I suppose. The H1N1 virus has been sweeping through the schools.

Tuesday was the worst of it. His fever spiked to 103.2 and I called the doctor to see if I should bring him in.

Dehydration is dangerous, she told me. If he continues to vomit and have diarrhea, then come. Other than that, give him Motrin or Tylenol every 4 hours and try to keep as comfortable as you can.

It's the sickest he's been since a double ear infection as a baby. I literally could not step out of his sight. "Mom," he'd call weakly. "Mom..."

I plied him with liquids and medicines. Ran him baths and showers. Kept a cool rag on his head. Slept on the floor of his room while he napped. Rubbed his feet with lotion. By the end of the day, I was exhausted and he was wrung out and near tears.

"Tomorrow will be better," I promised. And it was. But it's been a long week and I'm grateful that he had no complications.

His reliance on me made me think of all the times I relied on my mother when I was sick. I was a rather sickly child. One family reunion, we all contacted stomach flu and spent the drive back vomiting into a plastic bag.

"Mommy!" we demanded, retching. Rub my back, hold my hand, make me feel better.

My poor mother had her hands full. I can't remember if she was sick as well. I was too consumed by my own misery. But she never complained. That I remember. Never threw her hands up in the air and shouted, "You kids are driving me crazy!" -- although I'm sure she wanted to. My mother was a saint. Thanks, Mom, for setting such a good example.

But I did draw the line last night. He hadn't had a temperature in 3 days and was milking the "waiting hand and foot" mama option for all it was worth.

"Could you get me a drink of ice water?" he asked, heading for bed.

"You've got legs. Use 'em."

So he did.