I lay diagonally across the bed, sweeping the mattress with my feet, searching for differing pockets of temperature – sometimes hot, sometimes cold. The curtains are open, revealing a crisp, lung-shrinkingly cold winter’s day. When I nap during the day – on the odd occasion I allow myself the luxury – I usually keep the curtains open. I suppose it’s my halfway concession to the gods of opportunity that have allowed me the chance to be there, even if I am sick. I wouldn’t suppose to be greedy, and besides, if the room is too dark, I would fall into a deeper sleep that would be unwise to indulge in, for fear of screwing with my nighttime rest. Call me a sleep pragmatist.
I cough, tug the sheets around me, and roll over. Then I spy upon the carpet a new stain: brown and round. A liquid at some stage. Not that kind of stain, but I still don’t really want to see. Grunting, I turn back again to face the window, ignoring the twinges in my back. Spider webs glint in the sun, the breeze pulses the lattice back and forth.
Last week, Riley slept in my bed, in this very spot, during the day. Fevered, miserable, he sat up to take the medicine when he needed it, obligingly held out his arms when I needed to change his sweat-soaked pajamas. By 1pm on one particular day, I was getting quite worried. I put my hand to his head and asked him, “What else can I do for you buddy?”
He mumbled back, “I’m fine”, then fell asleep again.
That phrase, so often tokenistic, then made me want to cry. My poor, forbearing little guy. And so I must try to be, as I rise from my own sickbed, to look after him (and Keira, who had a touch of this herself). They are now much better. I’ll be fine, too.
I do hate winter lurgies though.
And boy I’m pleased it didn’t turn into anything serious.