Currently, I find myself battling a chest infection—or perhaps something more severe, like pneumonia, bronchitis, or even the bubonic plague. As a self-employed mother of two, visiting the doctor has fallen far down my priority list—currently around number 57. Thus, I’m self-medicating and attempting to ride out this illness.
Last night, during an intense coughing episode, I reminisced about my pre-child days, where being sick felt like a mini-vacation. I would wake up on a Monday, possibly nursing a slight cold and a hangover, and charmingly inform my boss that, while I was eager to work, I simply couldn’t risk passing on any germs. My boss would readily agree, and I would internally celebrate my unexpected day off.
Ah, those were the times before remote work became the norm. I’d cozy up in bed, sleep until noon, whip up a bacon sandwich (purely for medicinal purposes), and indulge in daytime television—all while remaining in my pajamas. Sometimes, I was even graced by visits from my mother, bringing homemade chicken soup, or my then-boyfriend—now husband—would call from the pharmacy offering to procure cough drops and soothing tissues. Those sick days are a distant memory!
Now, living in Spain, I no longer have anyone to report my illness to, and my mother’s comforting soup would likely arrive cold, if at all. When I inform her of my current state, she chuckles, not out of cruelty, but in a way that says, “Welcome to motherhood; I’ve been waiting for you to join the club.” After all, she patiently endured my childhood ailments, and now it’s my turn. She reminds me that when mothers dare to fall ill, they can only do so while standing. There’s no sympathy, no concern, and certainly no assistance. In fact, it’s best to reserve any thoughts of being motherless for genuine emergencies—only then can you truly alarm your family.
My mother also pointed out that ever since I organized a birthday party for my two-year-old just three days after giving birth to my second child, I’ve set an unachievable standard of “Supermom.” My husband seems unbothered by my condition as well. Just this morning, amidst my honking coughs that likely disturbed the entire neighborhood, he suggested, “Why don’t you sleep in the spare room tonight? I need my rest for a busy day tomorrow.”
So, I soldier on. After a week of relentless coughing, I discovered an old packet of antibiotics that the internet assures me will suffice for my chest infection. I’ve also taken a few swigs of a concoction that resembles thick tar and smells quite unpleasant. Neither remedy appears effective, but at least I’m making an effort.
Now in my second week of sounding like a chain smoker, I like to think my husky voice adds a touch of allure. In reality, it simply means I can no longer hit the high notes on Disney songs—much to my children’s relief. Earlier today, I experienced a particularly fierce coughing fit while on the phone with a client, my vegetables boiling over, and my three-year-old demanding attention.
As I hung up and rushed to the bathroom, doubled over and gasping for breath, my five-year-old rushed in, her face filled with concern. “Don’t worry,” I managed to say, grasping the towel rail for support. “Mummy is fine.” “I know,” she replied. “I just want to know when my dinner will be ready.”
And that, dear readers, encapsulates what it means to be ill—vertically.
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Summary
This article reflects on the experience of being ill as a self-employed mother, contrasting pre-parenthood sick days filled with relaxation and sympathy with the harsh reality of motherhood. The narrative highlights the challenges of managing illness while caring for children and the lack of support that often accompanies motherhood.
Keyphrase: self-employed mother illness
Tags: “home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”