Growing up in a household with a father who was a doctor and a mum who had some nursing experience meant one had to be very, very sick indeed to warrant any attention.
Just saying you weren’t feeling well wasn’t going to get you out of going to school, for example. One had to plan one’s moves well in advance. The listlessness had to present itself some time before one claimed illness. You couldn’t possibly be playing outside the whole day and then suddenly say you weren’t feeling well. If you were foolish enough to do so, you would be immediately told, “I told you not to stay out in the sun for so long”.
And then there were the siblings who jealously resisted any attempt to skip household chores which might fall on them by default. So, if you said you felt you had a temperature, pairs of hands, like the tentacles of an octopus, would descend on your forehead before a proclamation was made. This was usually something to the effect of “My head is hotter than yours”.
Sadly, this was more often true than not. For some unexplained reason, although I might be feeling under the weather, the thermometer refused to recognise my fever. The mercury would show a normal temperature, and then the ribbing would start. It was enough to make you feel even more ill.
Nowadays I hear of people rushing their children to a clinic as soon as they come down with a cold or a cough. Back in the day, we let the illness run its course and soon enough we were right as rain.
Perhaps the thought of boisterous children confined to bed and disinclined to indulge in roughhousing appealed to parents who found us more than a handful. We weren’t prescribed antibiotics at the drop of a hat. Instead, we were made to gargle with warm water several times a day and not allowed to eat any cold foods. Sure enough, we were back on our feet in a few days without the benefit of medicines.
So, when I came down with chickenpox one summer, I was quite delighted. The discomfort was forgotten and all I could think of was the special treatment and attention I would receive. Unfortunately, the siblings were asked not to enter the room where I was for fear of their contracting the disease. So, that deprived me of playing the role of patient to the hilt. Somehow, it wasn’t as satisfying exaggerating one’s discomfort and suffering in the presence of an already solicitous mother.
Fit as a fiddle
But meals in bed and special treats to tempt my appetite (the lack of which always worried my mother as we were naturally a voracious lot) were not to be scoffed at.
But this was a once in a lifetime experience and it couldn’t be extended beyond its expiry date. Soon, one was pronounced fit as a fiddle and it was back to school. Among my siblings, I was the only one who didn’t enjoy going to school. I was convinced I was safer and happier at home, within a reassuring distance of my mum.
I remember being taken aback by a brother’s unusual behaviour. One morning he woke up very ill. No one could deny he had a fever. So, he was asked to stay at home. In a brief moment of envy, I wondered why I wasn’t offered such options. But, seeing his flushed face and subdued demeanour, I knew he was not fit to go to school. But how did he react? He actually cried and begged to be able to go to school. The more passionate his entreaties, the firmer was my parents’ refusal to allow him out of the house. Eventually, he did stay back while I mulled over life’s injustices!
