The Creeping Crud

When mom’s under the weather, the entire household, and anybody within six degrees of separation, is subjected to graphic, minute-by-minute updates of how exactly she’s feeling.

“Amma….Appa…” she’ll moan, walking around the house like a listless ghost with dark circles under her eyes, wailing, “I just want to die!”

Stopping at regular intervals to cough and touch her forehead and cheeks with her palm, mom will wish she knew someone like the faith healer in The Green Mile who could mystically suck disorders out of people.

“Can you make me some ginger tea?” she’ll implore dad, looking her miserable best with watery eyes, a red nose and snot running down her nostrils.

“Um…, how exactly do you make tea, again? the Food Network junkie will wonder aloud. “Do I use this pot or that pot? Where’s the spoon? Where’s the sugar?" Holding out a jar of black mustard seeds, dad will ask, "Are these tea leaves?”

Too sick to retort, mom will wordlessly brew herself a cup of tea, yearning for her own mother’s cool hand on her forehead and a bowlful of her pepper rasam for comfort.

“Don’t make me shout, I have a sore throat,” she’ll warn the kids in a hoarse whisper, shooing them away. “And pick up your toys! This place is like a pig sty,” she’ll yell in the same breath, before collapsing in a fit of hacking coughs.

From time to time, fishing for a sympathy massage, mom will proffer her forehead to dad and ask him if she has fever. “Why don’t you use a thermometer?” dad will impatiently suggest. “Take some Tylenol and go lie down.”

“Yeah, right,” mom will retort under her breath, clanging pots and pans in the kitchen. “Who will cook? Who will feed the kids? Who will clean this place if I go lie down?” she’ll lament, convinced that the kids would starve if she didn’t cook healthy, balanced meals, and the household would fall apart if she didn’t clear the newspaper clutter in the family room this very instant, empty the dishwasher, refill it and do at least three loads of laundry for the week ahead.

So, sniffling and sneezing, groaning and grimacing, mom will go about her business, pausing only to declare, “You all will realize my worth only when I’m dead and gone!”