Sick Had a Warm Side

Being the sick one at 1469 Van Buren had its warm side. 

Special attention.

I believe none of us doubted that we were loved by our mother, Leona. But, being sick in bed in a family of five kids meant Mom could and would make me the focus of her love and attention. I remember when I was very small that she would climb onto the bed with me and hold me while I tried to go to sleep. Lonely, isolated in an upstairs bedroom, jealous for the normal family life heard from below, I could expect her frequent visits to see how I was doing, perhaps take my temperature, apply a damp cloth to my forehead, give me my Aspirin and a glass of water. The whole family treated the sick one in the family with care and concern. It helped me to have a room right next to the only bathroom. Everyone venturing that way would poke a head in the doorway and ask how I was doing.  Unspoken, something better than an armistice reigned in that province of sibling rivalry.

Special Meals.

If well enough, we made it downstairs for meals. But, there was an incentive to be not quite well enough. That meant homemade chicken soup and other items on the sick-day menu would be carried up the stairs to me, usually by one of my sisters, where it tasted better and more healing than downstairs.

Malted Milk and Ginger Ale.

My dad believed that Ginger Ale was good medicine for the flu. We never kept soft drinks in the house except for special occasions, and being sick was a special occasion that usually found somebody in the family going down to the “milk store” to get a couple of bottles for the sick one. Ginger Ale was never a favorite of mine. It tasted a bit like medicine. However, I loved the flavor when I was sick because I knew that I was the only one in the household experiencing the luxury of a healing soft drink.

A malted milk (we never added the word “shake”) was another order of magnitude special. My dad also felt this ice-cream treat was good medicine—knowing as well that it was a delicious treat. Less often, of course, than chicken soup, not quite as often as Ginger Ale, Dad would go himself to a soda fountain and bring back the malted milk chosen by the patient--for me, that was usually butterscotch. Again, nobody else in the family got one. And I absolutely loved malted milks.

I need not describe the worst of having the flu or being otherwise under the weather, but, yes, I have fond memories of being sick at 1469 Van Buren.

(c) from date of posting, by Bob Komives, Fort Collins