On Being Sick

Roberta walked into my classroom on a Friday morning at 8:25am.

"Mary's sick," she said.  "She almost fainted.  The school called.  They might want to take her in an ambulance."

I didn't know what to say.  Daniel was teaching at St. Thomas' and hadn't picked up his phone when the school called him.  What to do.  I looked at the students giving a presentation on a Jhumpa Lahiri story.  This was the first one: I couldn't leave.

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I had a similar reaction twenty years ago when my family called me in California to tell me that my mom was in the ICU at Mass General because her spine collapsed, and they didn't know whether she'd be paralyzed.  "Go home," the women in the English department said.  "I can't," I told them.  "I have my classes."  These wiser women told me to go home; friends from the language department got me a plane ticket with their miles; I was gone by the next morning for over a week.  And when I saw my family in Boston, I thought, Why did I hesitate for even a minute?  I'm painting myself in a very poor light, I know.  This is the tricky part of growing up in a house where the more you work the more virtuous you are.  My dad had a plumbing business, so he worked and worked and worked.  When my brothers started working with him, they did the same thing.  I am conditioned to put work first and to think that working more is more virtuous than working less.  I've been trying to adjust this mindset for a while.  Embarrassing, absolutely.  But hard to break the habit.

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Roberta left to figure out what to do.  Yes, I kept teaching, and Roberta went to figure out what to do about my eleven-year-old who almost fainted.  I was thinking, I saw Mary this morning.  She ate breakfast with me.  She was fine.

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This fall the director came to my desk one day and said, "You know, if you ever need to stay with your kids because they're sick, just let me know.  Family comes first."

I replied, "Thanks.  But, really, I don't really deal with the kids when they're sick.  Daniel gets them and stays home with them."

It was true.  He works part-time at home and works two miles from their Waltham school.  I work thirty to forty minutes away, so when the school nurse has called me to say that Mary's uncomfortable because her shoes are too small, or Sebastian got a scratch in the playground, or Connor's lying down in her office, or Hannah has a fever, I say, "Okay, I'm pretty far away.  Did you call my husband?"

Once I'm home I kick in and am happy to sit with and cater to a sick child.  They love the attention and chance to eat saltines and sip soda and maybe even -- sometimes -- to watch tv.

My mom was never sick.  My dad was never sick.  We kids went to school unless we were throwing up or had the chicken pox.  In some ways, I think this approach served me well: I generally think that if I get up and get moving I will feel better, make it through the day, and eventually get over whatever is ailing me.  This has worked for the most part.  However, there have been occasions when a little feeling exhausted or off has resulted in more serious maladies, e.g. pneumonia (twice), strep in various parts of my body (not throat), the flu.  Some of these times I have missed work -- for the pneumonia, once no and once yes; for the strep, no; for the flu, no.

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When my dad and Jacqueline were visiting, Jacqueline said at one point, "It's irresponsible to go to to work when you're sick.  You spread germs and can make other people sick."

Jacqueline is a biologist.

I thought how I grew up with a different message: It's irresponsible to miss work.  And it's irresponsible to make a situation where someone else might have to do your work.

I don't disagree with Jacqueline.  I just don't know how to reconcile what has become my core being with what I know is practical and wise.

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The kids were writing notes about Lahiri's "A Temporary Matter" when the director came in.

"Come on.  We're going to get Mary," he said.

"But what about class?"  I said.

"Tell them what to do.  Let's go," he said.

I looked at my students.  They were adding to their lists on the whiteboard, completely engaged with the story, their observations, and each other.

I left.

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The director drove me in Ele's (another co-worker) car to Santa Maria dell Paradiso, and as I expressed my feeling bad for his taking time out of his morning ("I could have walked over and taken her home in a cab," I told him), he acted as if this  morning drive together was great timing: "I need to talk with you about one of your advisees anyway, so this is perfect," he said.

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Mary was sitting in the principal's office.  She looked pale, but she told me, "I'm fine.  I really am.  I felt like I was going to faint because we have to stand for a long time in chapel on Friday mornings, but I just needed some water.  I'm fine now.  I can stay here."

I told my director what Mary said.  And by now I realized that Mary seemed to be exhibiting signs of a condition that I've had off and on my whole life.  When I was younger and we went to a 7am mass for a holiday, I often felt woozy, as if I would faint.  I never did faint, likely because I got used to this phenomenon and sat down before I could fall.  I'd sit down, drink some water, rest a bit, and then be fine to go to Easter brunch after mass.  "You looked green," my parents would tell me.

Mary told me, "They made me lie down and put my feet up.  And they wanted to make sure that I had eaten some cookies for breakfast.  Really, I'm fine now.  They want me to go home, but I'm fine.  And it feels bogus going home because I'm okay.  And I have my first interragazione today, so I don't want to leave because that looks bogus."

I relayed to Pat again even though I was pretty sure that he wouldn't give in to Mary as I wanted to -- he'd been in Italy too long: he knew how things went when it came to illness or potential illness in Italian school.  I, on the other hand, totally understood where Mary was coming from.

"She's gotta go home.  They won't let her stay," he said.

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My next class started at 9am.

"Is Daniel home?" the director asked.

"No," I told him.  I told him that Mary could go to our apartment and I'd check in on her after my third class.

"Let's bring her to school," he said.  "I'll feel better about that.  She can lie on Dave's couch while you teach, and she'll be close enough for us to check on her."

I was back in time for my second class, Mary resting in Dave's office, Pat back at work as director.

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Within the hour, Mary felt back to herself, and two hours later she and I went to the apartment to get her settled.  We did some cleaning; I did some work; she got a headstart on her weekend homework.  She told me that she felt a bit guilty being home and having a free day, and I told her that she could just enjoy it, rest if she wanted.

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Now on Friday mornings I make Mary a cup of tea with milk and sugar before she heads out to school, convinced that this will help her endure standing for Luigi's longer prayers on Friday mornings.

I'm not sure the message I'm sending our kids about sickness and health and work.  I think I'm saying, Be kind.  Work hard.  Take care of yourself.  Take breaks -- walks, swims, movies, books.  Sometimes good enough is good enough.  Sleep matters more than most other things.  Chatting is the best.  Relaxing is necessary.  I love you a lot.

Last week I started listening to an On Being podcast, an interview of Richard Davidson ("a neuroscientist on love and learning").  One thing I remember is this or some version of this: your kids will not remember what you say; they will remember what you do.

I'm hoping Mary remembers that Pat and I came to pick her up and not that I didn't come immediately.