I have never had a sick day. Not since year 6 in primary school and not until last week when I got a concussion at work. But even then I had the following week off as holiday.
When I had that sick day in year 6, it wasn’t a test day or anything. It was a Wednesday: PE day. I had complained to my Mum of a stomach-ache at breakfast that morning, but she must have assumed I was faking it. Even though I had never had a sick day before then. She drove me to the school gates and dropped me off.
‘Hurry up then,’ she said as she lent across me and opened the car door. It took me about fifteen minutes after we had our carton of milk in the morning for me to throw up all over the table in front of me. I remember a couple of the girls screaming and some boys laughing and shouting in excitement as cereal and milk that had turned to mucous came out of my mouth and nose.
The next thing I remember was sitting outside the principles office with my bag at my feet and a sick bowl in my hands, waiting for my Mum to pick me up. I remember feeling hungry and taking a chocolate bar out of my lunch box. Mrs Blackwell, the mother of a boy in my class, walked past and said,
‘Hmpf! She can’t be that sick if she’s eating chocolate!’ as if talking to someone else who was backing up her judgement. I’m not too sure exactly what she did at the school, but she wasn’t a teacher. I folded the wrapper around the remains of my chocolate bar and out it back in my bag as I waited for my Mum to show up.
When my Mum got me home she made me change into my pyjamas and go straight to bed. She checked on me every hour or so to see how I was. But now that I had actually been sick I really didn’t feel too bad anymore. So as soon as she left my bedroom I would get out from under my covers and start playing with my toys.
At dinnertime she asked me if I thought I would be able to hold something down. I said I would and we went downstairs and ate Garlic Kiev’s and chips and watched the news. Afterwards, we had neapolitan ice cream and I sat on the sofa with my Mum and she brushed my hair: it was very long back then; down to my coccyx. Even though I had spent most of the day in bed I thought I might fall asleep right there.
She then got up and went upstairs. When she came back down she had two books and my pencil case in her hand. One of the books was my exercise book; the other was a maths textbook. She set them up at the dining room table and told me I could make up for the work I missed at school today.
The next thing I remember was having a long argument with her about how it was PE today and it was maths tomorrow. I think I actually screamed, I MISSED PE TODAY about twenty times in a row until I ran out of breath, while my mother just stared at me with her arms crossed. She would then reply calmly,
‘Well then, you’ll be ahead of everyone else tomorrow won’t you?’
Neither of us listened to each other and I ended up locking myself in the bathroom, sobbing to myself as my Mum banged on the bathroom door, telling me if I didn’t study now then I would regret it later in life. She then left and came back fifteen minutes later. I was still crying and sniffing up my own snot.
She tapped on the door gently,
‘Baby,’ she would call me, ‘I need the toilet.’ She then paused and continued, ‘Listen, you know I love you, don’t you? I’m just trying to do what I think is right, and what I think your father would have wanted. It’s not easy for me, you know?’
There was silence, except for the hum and whir of the extractor fan, which the light switch turned on automatically. I got down from the toilet seat and undid the lock. I had stopped crying but my face felt puffy, red and wet. I opened the bathroom door and my Mum was standing there, her face puffy, red and wet. She dropped to her knees and hugged me tightly and we both started crying again.
This was the last sick day I ever took off work until last week, when I hit my head on the back of the door to the walk-in freezer at work and got a concussion. Today is my first day back since then and I am seriously considering calling in sick for the first time ever. My phone is in my hand. It would be an easy call to make, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I put my phone down and get out of bed. I pick up my towel off the back of the radiator in my room and go to the bathroom.
I wrap a towel around my head and slide down into the bath. I listen to the radio for three songs before getting out and brushing my teeth. My Mum yells from the bottom of the stairs that she is leaving and hopes I have a good day at work. I say thanks, toothbrush still in mouth. The front door slams shut as I spit the white froth into the sink. I wipe my mouth and look at myself in the mirror. I smile. I force an outwardly positive image.
When I had that sick day in year 6, it wasn’t a test day or anything. It was a Wednesday: PE day. I had complained to my Mum of a stomach-ache at breakfast that morning, but she must have assumed I was faking it. Even though I had never had a sick day before then. She drove me to the school gates and dropped me off.
‘Hurry up then,’ she said as she lent across me and opened the car door. It took me about fifteen minutes after we had our carton of milk in the morning for me to throw up all over the table in front of me. I remember a couple of the girls screaming and some boys laughing and shouting in excitement as cereal and milk that had turned to mucous came out of my mouth and nose.
The next thing I remember was sitting outside the principles office with my bag at my feet and a sick bowl in my hands, waiting for my Mum to pick me up. I remember feeling hungry and taking a chocolate bar out of my lunch box. Mrs Blackwell, the mother of a boy in my class, walked past and said,
‘Hmpf! She can’t be that sick if she’s eating chocolate!’ as if talking to someone else who was backing up her judgement. I’m not too sure exactly what she did at the school, but she wasn’t a teacher. I folded the wrapper around the remains of my chocolate bar and out it back in my bag as I waited for my Mum to show up.
When my Mum got me home she made me change into my pyjamas and go straight to bed. She checked on me every hour or so to see how I was. But now that I had actually been sick I really didn’t feel too bad anymore. So as soon as she left my bedroom I would get out from under my covers and start playing with my toys.
At dinnertime she asked me if I thought I would be able to hold something down. I said I would and we went downstairs and ate Garlic Kiev’s and chips and watched the news. Afterwards, we had neapolitan ice cream and I sat on the sofa with my Mum and she brushed my hair: it was very long back then; down to my coccyx. Even though I had spent most of the day in bed I thought I might fall asleep right there.
She then got up and went upstairs. When she came back down she had two books and my pencil case in her hand. One of the books was my exercise book; the other was a maths textbook. She set them up at the dining room table and told me I could make up for the work I missed at school today.
The next thing I remember was having a long argument with her about how it was PE today and it was maths tomorrow. I think I actually screamed, I MISSED PE TODAY about twenty times in a row until I ran out of breath, while my mother just stared at me with her arms crossed. She would then reply calmly,
‘Well then, you’ll be ahead of everyone else tomorrow won’t you?’
Neither of us listened to each other and I ended up locking myself in the bathroom, sobbing to myself as my Mum banged on the bathroom door, telling me if I didn’t study now then I would regret it later in life. She then left and came back fifteen minutes later. I was still crying and sniffing up my own snot.
She tapped on the door gently,
‘Baby,’ she would call me, ‘I need the toilet.’ She then paused and continued, ‘Listen, you know I love you, don’t you? I’m just trying to do what I think is right, and what I think your father would have wanted. It’s not easy for me, you know?’
There was silence, except for the hum and whir of the extractor fan, which the light switch turned on automatically. I got down from the toilet seat and undid the lock. I had stopped crying but my face felt puffy, red and wet. I opened the bathroom door and my Mum was standing there, her face puffy, red and wet. She dropped to her knees and hugged me tightly and we both started crying again.
This was the last sick day I ever took off work until last week, when I hit my head on the back of the door to the walk-in freezer at work and got a concussion. Today is my first day back since then and I am seriously considering calling in sick for the first time ever. My phone is in my hand. It would be an easy call to make, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I put my phone down and get out of bed. I pick up my towel off the back of the radiator in my room and go to the bathroom.
I wrap a towel around my head and slide down into the bath. I listen to the radio for three songs before getting out and brushing my teeth. My Mum yells from the bottom of the stairs that she is leaving and hopes I have a good day at work. I say thanks, toothbrush still in mouth. The front door slams shut as I spit the white froth into the sink. I wipe my mouth and look at myself in the mirror. I smile. I force an outwardly positive image.
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