Freak Parade

So we think The Girl may have chicken pox. A very mild case, but still enough to send her brother off the deep end. Any hint of illness at our house just freaks him the hell out. I considered not even mentioning it to him, but I needed to deposit her somewhere today while we went for his math tutoring, instead of taking her with us and, and I knew he would be on to me. Now, The Boy has had chicken pox - twice. He got it the first time about 12 days after getting the stupid vaccine. When I took him back to the doctor to confirm, I was told that it was not chicken pox at all…..merely a chicken-pox-like rash. Oooookaaaaaaay. But the condescending treatment of a young mom, who looks even younger, by holier-than-thou doctors is fodder for a whole ‘nother time…..heck, I could even squeeze two tirades out of it, if you want to address the fact that they knew damn well it was chicken pox, but didn’t want to add that to the statistics and draw light to the fact that the chicken pox vaccine was a joke. The only vaccine ever invented purely for economic reasons….but I digress. I was writing about the fact that at the mere mention of a germ The Boy demands to go into quarantine, accompanied by various degrees of freaking out. His plan of action has levels…much like the ones designed by those in charge of our homeland security.

Green: All appears to be clear, but a virus could be lurking around any corner. Be ever vigilant. Shriek if your sister accidentally touches your unwrapped straw, and curse her for breathing too close to you.

Yellow: Someone mentions a headache…or that their throat is scratchy. This is your cue to do some heavy reconnaissance. Assault your mother (who is apparently the keeper of all knowledge regarding germs) with questions as to the likely source of the headache. Unsatisfied with her answer…..continue to ask…..and ask…..and ask. Take her exasperation as the attempt at covering up the risk of exposure to something menacing and potentially life-threatening. Announce that you wish you didn’t have a sister, who is obviously the source for all germs brought into your realm of existence. Retire to your room for some “quiet time”.

Orange: Oh no. Someone has actually gotten something. A cold? The flu? Malaria? Doesn’t matter. Now is time for drastic measures. Hole up in your room with the door closed. Demand to take all of your meals there. Demand that all of your meals be prepared in a different room from the person afflicted. Open your window to expose yourself to uncontaminated air. Dead of winter? No matter. You need fresh air, damn it. When your food is delivered, demand to be released into the care of your Mamaw until the coast is clear. If permission to flee the premises has been granted (much easier to accomplish now that you have your own cell phone) streak through the house and directly into the car, stopping for nothing, aside from yelling the fact that you must be transported to safety ALONE! No unnecessary passengers on this ride, baby. Eat yourself into a coma and play on the computer at Mamaw’s until the plague has lifted.

R ed: The end of the world is surely nigh. You have gotten sick. You are quite possibly dying. Everyone knows a stuffy nose does not allow the intake of enough oxygen to sustain life. And your eyeballs? Surely they are about to shrivel up and drop right out of your head. Loudly demand medication and lots of it. Wail and complain bitterly, tearing at your clothing when the medication does not work immediately upon ingestion. Demand more. When you are refused, curse the manufacturers of the medication for making promises they had no intention of keeping. Mentally begin a manifesto declaring what you would do if you could get your hands on the makers of these horrible products. Pause to ask your mom to move, she is blocking your view of the TV. Resume the wailing and gnashing of teeth, adding the lines, “Why? Why me? Why do I have to get sick? Why? Why?” Repeat cycle ad naseum until you are healed. Slink around, suspicious of everyone…every cough, every sniff, every blink that seemed a little too long…..for the next few weeks…at least.

Thankfully, The Boy does not get sick very often, because it is not pretty. Not pretty at all. I, myself, am quite the germ-phobic, and can’t fault him…to a degree. Heck, I’m sure that his obsessiveness caution plays a large part in why he does not get sick very often. But is sure doesn’t make it easy when someone is sick…..most especially if they’ve got The Pox.