My daughter is sick. The kind of knockdown, look-what-the-cat-dragged-in sick that results in a sleepless household and the certainty that you will never step outdoors again. My husband and I are entering our 40th hour of dashing for the toilet bowl with Sofie, wading through fields of crumpled tissues, and speaking in hushed tones, as if normal voice levels might antagonize the virus.
When you are the child, being sick is rather fun. I spent worry-free hours reading and drawing in bed, an eager recipient to Mom’s cure-all concoctions—thick spoonfuls of honey and lemon for coughs, ginger ale or cola syrup over cracked ice for nausea. Sugary heaven with a side of extra TV!
When you are the parent, fun goes out the window. Or maybe it’s just me. I don’t handle sickness well (mine or others), as it tends to reveal my helplessness. I am no Florence Nightingale. Oh, I have my moments—fluffing up extra pillows, making chicken soup—but they pale in comparison to the hateful little voices reminding me of the laundry to be washed, the bills to be paid, the to-do list that remains untouched because sickness has thrown life off schedule.
illustrations by Tomie dePaola
These same voices question my medical mothering skills. Should I be giving Sofie some sort of medicine? When do I call the pediatrician? Is it okay that she’s been wearing the same clothes since Wednesday?
What I really want is my very own Strega Nona who I can access anytime, especially during an eight-hour vomiting session. She would arrive at my home with reassurance and a black bag of magical elixirs and potions. Strange-sounding herbs steeped in ancient history. With a properly placed poultice and a wave of her healing hands, Strega Nona would eradicate Sofie’s pain, resurrecting her vivacious smile.
Instead my daughter has me, a hapless Big Anthony who means well but can barely decipher a pasta pot from a neti pot.
I try. My realm of natural healing is limited to aromatherapy, which is why the sickroom burns with a mixture of oils (lemongrass for fever, cypress for coughs, lavender for everything). Effective? Who knows. The important thing is that I feel like I’m helping…and the house smells good.
Previously, I’ve tried home treatments such as putting chopped onions inside Sofie’s socks to reduce a bad cough or hanging a potato poultice around her neck to relieve congestion. (Suggestions from a natural medicine book, I swear.) These remedies elicited nothing except skeptical snorts from my husband, and in the end, I resorted to over-the-counter sugary syrups.
When I do take Sofie to the pediatrician, I usually leave unsatisfied with yet another antibiotic prescription (and worries about whether my health insurance will cover it) or the costly advice: “Nothing we can do since it’s viral – give it about five days to pass.” Such are the limits of conventional medicine.
My daughter is sick. The kind of listless, tearing-a-hole-in-my-heart sick that makes me want to develop my own inner strega. I am half Italian, if that helps. And I do believe we all have untapped healing powers. If only I could believe in myself a bit more.
Maybe there’s a class I can take. And maybe I’ll discover I’m on the right path and that I’ve just been using the wrong type of onion.
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I loved Dr. McGonigle when we were in the area. So worth making the MD switch.