In Sickness and in Health, but in 2021, Sickness Won, by Georgia Garvey – Post World

Almost two years ago to the day, our 5-year-old coined the term “puke” to describe diarrhea.

It was an invention of necessity to explain to us the state in which he had left the bathroom. It painted a vivid picture.

That was the year, 2019, that norovirus and upper respiratory tract infections ran rudely through our home, leading to that memorable Christmas morning when I had to sneak past the decorated and presented tree days after our emergency room my older son was visiting with the younger one .

It was the year my father was looking for a place in the middle of the night to, say, burn the candle on both ends, found me curled up over the toilet, a sick baby on my lap while I vomited inside .

“Oh no,” he said, less out of pity than out of fear that he wouldn’t make it to the second bathroom.

Despite this tough competition, Christmas 2021 will go down in a shame of frailty.

My husband was hospitalized several times in the weeks leading up to the vacation, the third time with a severe blood infection.

“Oh, that could kill you,” the emergency room nurse replied lightly after wondering how bad things were.

When my mother-in-law asked if she could bring me something, I remembered Xanax.

In the meantime, the kids and I all got the same overworked, aching fever that, despite checking every box on the COVID bingo card, produced nothing but a barrage of negative tests.

Parents know the COVID test dance all too well. Every time a child visits the pediatrician with an upset stomach, knee injury, or strange rash, the doctor looks in their eyes, ears, and mouth and then makes sure to order a COVID test.

Our younger son holds the world record for most consecutive negative COVID tests, enough that he now has a preferred species.

“I hope this is not the one who coughs,” he said to me the last time we dragged him to the pediatrician’s office for a smear.

“This is a bug,” announced the pediatrician after his most recent negative result.

A beetle. It sounded so strange, like saying he had rickets.

Then, as everything seemed to have calmed down, when my sick husband was freshly discharged from the hospital and fell into our weak embrace, the ceiling began to leak.

No flood or anything, just a small, stubborn drop that secret services use to torture spies.

To be honest: I didn’t see the drop. Didn’t see it because I was upstairs bathing the kids or trying before I had to save the entire operation and move it to the second bathroom.

My husband, fresh from the hospital, spent the next day sawing a hole in the ceiling and then called a plumber, who still honored us with his presence.

But no problem.

Because the next day was the day our toddler had his throat so full of joy and amazement at the first snowfall of the season that he spent the next 24 hours vomiting up every dog ​​poop that he had almost certainly ingested.

We took him to the doctor and of course they tested him for COVID.

And that brings me to today.

Multiple hospital stays, a spate of doctor visits, and more COVID tests than an NBA basketball team and we stay here, together, limping into the new year, hoping for a respite and being strangely grateful.

Grateful for the perspective that time brings with it, the clarity of the distance.

Grateful for the sisters and brothers and parents who helped us.

Grateful that things didn’t take the really bad turn they could have.

I mean it could be worse.

We still have the second bathroom.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit

Credit: unknown user panama bei Pixabay

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