Here. Feel My Forehead. Doesn’t It Feel Hot to You?

When I was growing up, the only thing that would keep us home from school was fever or throwing up. Well, that and chicken pox, but chicken pox wasn’t a recurring malady. Usually, one bout of chicken pox and you were done. Beyond that, no matter how we fussed, complained, and explained how bad we felt, Mother would squeeze some nose drops in our noses and off we’d go to school, whatever the weather. And we had to walk, yes, WALK. From first through third grade, I had to walk twice as far to school as my sister. Actually I think it was four times as far. JoAnne did all her elementary school days in our new house, the house where I live now. It was a good half-block walk to school. Our other house, where I started school, was at least two whole blocks away from that school, and even if it was raining, cold, windy, or broiling hot, I had to walk . No matter how I felt. And sometimes, I felt crummy.

Aside regarding the chicken pox–JoAnne, age four or so, caught it from some little friend. She had a dozen or so spots on her tummy. So, after a week, Mother began to check my torso each morning, anticipating that I would develop the illness, also. Finally, on day fourteen, there were spots. No school for you and get back in bed, please. I, too, ended up with a dozen or so spots, on the bottom of one foot. And a dozen or so on the bottom of the other foot. And dozen and dozens more all over my entire body. The palms of my hands, in my ears, up one side and down the other, side to side and front to back. It was misery. Oh, how I itched! A couple of years later, she picked up the mumps. Bless her heart. She was a little under the weather and people brought gifts to her, to amuse her during her illness. Someone brought her a little fire hat, and there are a couple of darling photos of her pretending to receive an emergency fire call on her toy phone and then looking tired and relieved as though she had just put out a blaze. Too cute. There are a couple of photos of me, too, taken three weeks or so later. I’m lying on the sofa, swelled up like a hot air balloon, wretched and pathetic, pretending to care if I lived.

Beyond those obvious illnesses, only fever and vomiting were valid. Nothing else would work for staying home. NO MATTER HOW WE FELT! I have a headache. I feel achy. My skin hurts, which sounds odd, but it was the only way I could explain that just-before-the-flu-hits feeling of pre-onset, just before my fever soared.

“Your skin hurts? Hmm. You can tell me if it gets better after you get home from school this afternoon.”  To her credit, Mother was quite solicitous when I came in with “weak eyes,” lethargy, and a raging fever. I got to lie on the sofa, underneath the purple satin comforter. You only got the comforter if you had a fever, not if you were vomiting.

Some afternoons, we’d come home and say “I don’t feel good. Take my temperature.” And it would be ninety-nine. “There!” we’d say. “See. I’m sick!”

“Oh,” she’d say, waving us away. “Everyone’s temperature goes up a little in the afternoon. You’re not sick.”

The irony is, JoAnne and I have discovered that out normal temps are around ninety-seven. “When I have a ninety-nine temp,” JoAnne says now. “I’m sick!”

Sadly, the “fever” idea is ingrained in me now. No matter how headachey, stuffy, miserable I am, I don’t feel justified if there’s no fever. I’ll plod along, feeling like a wimp. Last week, I felt the beginning stages of something, scratchy throat, weariness, but it never got all the way to a cold or the flu, which usually means allergy problems. And, of course, allergy is not contagious, no one’s going to catch it, so I just kept on squirting my allergy medicine up my nose and slogging along.

I felt better Saturday morning, we went out to breakfast, I did some shopping. In the afternoon, I felt bad again. I took my temperature, ninety-seven point six.  Not enough to stay home says the voice (of you-know-who) in my head. So I didn’t call anyone about Sunday School. Sunday morning, I felt worse, but, ninety-eight. Just on the edge, but really! If I get up and get going, I’ll feel better. I went to church, got the room all ready, didn’t feel better, and when the other teachers arrived, I said goodbye, I’m going home. Even if I’m not contagious, I don’t need to be  around little kids. I’m just not a very effective teacher if I’m sitting in one of those tiny preschool chairs with my head on a table. So I went home, read the paper, had some hot chocolate, slept for two hours, got up, read a magazine, had some hot tea, slept some more, got up, watched some football, had some chicken soup, watched more football, and went to bed. I’m hoping I feel better soon, but, you know, I’m not really sick. I don’t have a fever.

Hear, my child, your father’s instruction,
    and do not reject your mother’s teaching;
for they are a fair garland for your head,
    and pendants for your neck.
Proverbs 1: 8,9

One dictionary definition of “gentle” is “not severe, rough, or violent; mild,” which really does describe our upbringing. We were fortunate.