As a kid it was a free vacation day. An extra holiday. A get out of jail pass. A little slice of heaven.
I’m talking about being sick. Or more importantly, being able to stay home when you were sick.
It was just what the doctor ordered.
Didn’t matter if it was mild sickness or dancing on death’s door, the minute your mother removed that thermometer from your mouth and uttered these words — “Nope, you’re not going to school” — it was party time!
Of course, you couldn’t say that. No, you had to say something wily. Something convincing like, “No, really? Come on. I think I’m fine. There’s a math test today. I don’t want to miss it. Please let me learn!”
“Nope.”
“Awww, man! So … can I go outside and play now?”
I would pepper my fake disappointment with a little writhing and forced coughing, just to play it up a bit. But no matter how sick, or not sick, I was, victory had been sealed. It was a day at home, not at school. Freedom. Even if it meant spending the whole day laid out on the couch watching nothing but really bad movies in the days of only five TV channels. Remember that? At worst, you got stuck watching soap operas with your mother. But I didn’t mind. I always had a soft spot for “Guiding Light.”
I was thinking about this the other day when I was home sick with an evil stomach bug. I spent the day praying to the porcelain gods like a man possessed.
I found myself in that familiar position — laid out on the couch, watching nothing but really bad movies. Actually, even some good movies. I watched “Ghostbusters!” I had 500 channels at my disposal. I had the whole day to myself. This was my childhood dream. Yet … it was horrible. I wanted to be anywhere but there. I wanted to be well.
“What’s wrong with me?!?” I wondered. “How am I not loving this?”
But it wasn’t to be. Maybe some things we just outgrow.
A sick day home from school did miraculous things to us as children. It was like no prescription drug or treatment a doctor could ever order. It had nothing to do with rest. Because there is no rest when you stay home as a kid. Nonsense! Maybe the adrenaline and excitement coursing through our veins in a tidal wave of fury instantly wiped out the bug that ailed us.
I’m not talking about the days we were faking. Oh, no. I’m talking about the genuine, full-on, tomorrow-I-might-die sick days when we had verifiable, sometimes-infectious ailments that should have plastered us to the bed. Had us lying in pools of sweat. There were purple splotches all over our bodies. There were sounds emanating from our lungs that sounded like freight trains colliding. There was absolutely no proof that we HADN’T just seen a pink Easter Bunny and Alex Trebek.
Yet, the minute I heard those glorious words — “Nope, you’re not going to school” — I was totally fine. Miracle! And off I went to plot my day. I remember sitting at my desk and making up lists through coughs and wheezes. “Italy!” I would say. “I’ve always wanted to travel to Italy. I’ll do that today.”
“Back to bed,” my mother would demand. “You have a fever of 123 degrees. Some hospitals would have pronounced you dead.”
“But, mom, you don’t understand. I’m sick! I’m home from school! I have a lot to do. I need to go climb an oak tree!”
Even from bed you could do a lot as a kid. Play with G.I. Joe figures. Build LEGO forts. Play 18 straight hours of video games until ghosts and asteroids were burned into my retinas. Call every five minutes to the kitchen for a glass of water or a donut or something that would really make me feel better. Like a plate of Oreos for breakfast. Being sick was the closest I had ever been to a luxury hotel.
And then it would all end. I hated getting well.
But this week, laying on the couch I couldn’t fathom why. I couldn’t see the joy of my deplorable state. All I wanted to do was go back to work. “Please just let lightning strike me dead,” I cried.
I would have embarrassed my young self. I wouldn’t have understood what all the moaning was about. Nope, I can hear myself now: “Come on, man, ‘Guiding Light’s’ on in 15 minutes and I’ve ordered a package of Oreos for breakfast.”