The last time I was sick (well, the time before the time before the last time I was sick, I’ve been sick thrice here in London), Boyfriend microwaved me chicken noodle soup and brought me ice cream from the dinning hall. He stayed curled up in bed with me and watched SVU and NCIS for days and days until I felt well enough to leave the comfort of my room. My parents used to take off work when I was a sick kid. They would bring me soup and sandwiches and pester me to ‘drink some water, finish half that glass.’ When you’re sick someone is supposed to take care of you, right?
Well, apparently not when you’re an adult. When you’re living on your own there isn’t anyone to take care of you. That means, even though you’d rather stay curled up in bed, you have to walk to the corner store and buy cans of soup. Then you have to microwave the soup yourself, standing in the kitchen with your feet cold against the floor and your nose running. You have to remind yourself to drink water, and take the cold medicine, and buy more toilet paper to use as tissues. Sometimes you have to call your work and explain why you can’t come in. You have to email your professors and explain why you missed class, “hi Professor, sorry I wasn’t in class today. I have a really bad cold and I drank NyQuil to help me sleep and then I slept through your class. Sorry.”
Normally I love that I’m growing up. I love the freedom that comes with working for my money and paying for my own things. I love not having to ask permission or to apologize for breaking rules I didn’t make up. But this past week, as I lay on the floor of my room and struggled to breathe through my stuffed nose and my needled throat, I would have traded all the freedom in the world to have someone telling me I would be OK and bringing me bowls of soup and glasses of cold water.