Sick Days

Every time we travel Toby comes down with a sudden illness and spikes a high fever just when I have no Motrin, thermometer, or sanity. So it was no surprise this Saturday, when visiting my Dad in Oklahoma, that he woke up crying and wet, with only enough energy to barf lethargically into the toilet before slumping into my arms like a steaming heap of misery.

I scrambled to create our usual sick day comfort rituals though not at home: repeating episodes of Thomas and Friends (thank you On Demand), his stuffed Dalmatian Samson tucked under one arm, and his plaid blanket covering only his legs though a barf towel covered his entire body (and the couch) "just in case".

After "in case" happened infinity plus times I was out of towels and patience. Panic set in. If he has a stomach virus how am I going to make a three hour drive back? What if I get it? Will we be the loathed house guests yacking in the bathroom while the disgusted hosts wait in horror for the moment they can hand us our germ-infested luggage and burn the sheets we slept in?

Toby and I shared the couch for a very, very long night of fever, Thomas, and insomnia. I raked my fingers through his sweaty head and hoped his suffering would end quickly. I held a towel to his mouth so he didn't have to miss the freight cars crashing over a bridge while he puked. I felt his head. I checked the clock a thousand times. I got out my Bible and tried to read it over him, but I knew I was really reading it over me. I wondered how many moms were awake with sick kids, and how many moms were awake with really sick kids. I felt his head again.

The sun eventually came up, like it always does, and Toby's stomach settled down long enough to eat a piece of toast and drink some Gatorade. Though my gracious father insisted we could stay, I dosed him up on Motrin, threw our stuff in the car and drove home. He slept the whole way.

This afternoon when his fever was still raging my "wait and see" philosophy was usurped by my hypochondria and I rushed him off to the doctor. We learned Toby has a virus, and that waiting and seeing is never a bad idea.

An hour after our return Toby popped off the couch and yelled at baby Charlie for playing with his trains.

He's cured.