"I told you I was sick!"

                     You might think that having a pharmacist as our father that my brother and I would  be affirmed in our ailments. Or, at least garner some sympathy with our tribulations.  Oh, No! Daddy and Mother believed that sickness could be thwarted by strength and determination and few meds. Maybe 1T of Citrocarbonate.  Repeat after me, “I will not be sick.  I will not be sick.”  While we had our share of the usual childhood colds, coughs, and the inevitable chicken pox, if we felt bad, we were to “buck up.”

                      I remember one particular early morning when Mother woke me for school. “I don’t feel good,” I whined from beneath a mound of covers.  She left my room and returned a few moments later and told me for the “last time” to get out of the bed and get dressed for school. 

                         “I don’t feel good,” I repeated with heightened pitiful mewing. 

                          “You’ll feel better when you get up and get dressed,” she assured me.  So, I dragged myself out of the bed and into the bathroom to get dressed.

                          I trudged to the breakfast table and intoned, “I still don’t feel good.” 

                         “Eat some breakfast,” she replied, “you’ll feel better.” 

                           I put a few morsels of scrambled eggs into my mouth and swallowed.  I was feeling no better and said so.  “Go on to school and you’ll feel better. And quit slouching at the table.”

                             After much ado, I sighed, gathered my books, notebook, and purse. The carpool honked for me and I summonsed strength for the day while feeling horrid.  I made it through first period only to succumb to the inevitable. I got sick in the girls’ restroom. So embarrassed and so sick and helpless, I had no car for a drive home, even if I had been well enough to drive.  I was weak, sweating, and shaking. I called home but no one answered. 

                            I began to hallucinate and it all began to make sense.  Mother must have had plans which I would have interrupted had I remained at home in the sick bed.  I was furious.  And sick.  And crying in the school’s office.

                          Fortunately, I had friends…with cars. My friend Roseanne took me home.  Luckily, we lived in an era where homes could be left unlocked, so I was able to get into my house without a key.

I went to bed and to sleep, the cure for most of what ails us.

When Mother got home, I announced, “I told you I was sick!”

Let the guilt-induced pampering begin.