During a Thursday evening following my birthday day in early February, I was hit by a fast and furious stomach bug that leveled me out for a few days. Through the fog, as I occasionally lifted my head from my pillow, I squinted out into my existence, sensing I was losing days within hours. While it felt a bit of a blur as it unfolded, I can see that time more clearly now. As I look back over my journey with “the bug,” I gained a few insights.  

Being sick is incredibly inconvenient, for you and for everyone else in your life. Going from having everything to offer the world on a daily basis, to becoming a ward of humanity exposes the expectations we have of ourselves as well as those placed on us by others. Being mindful of how we offer ourselves to others—and the healthy boundaries we set around those offerings—is as important, if not more, than what we have to offer in the first place. We aren’t consumable objects ready and waiting for someone else to have a need of us. Saying “no” at times and not jumping at other people’s dime drop helps to remind others our existence goes far beyond appeasing their desires, requests, wants and needs—this is true in both personal and professional relationships. 

The Crash

If you are looking for the fast track back to your own room upon arrival at the ER—versus feeling like death in the shoulder-to-shoulder waiting game with 50 of your now closest physically downtrodden strangers—have abdominal pain, a temperature, crazy high blood pressure and a racing resting heart rate, cry when the doctor comes over to asses you and sprinkle, like fairy dust, talk of a family history of appendicitis … for good measure (joking aside, this was my presentation and in no way a haox). They will ask you a lot of questions in the ER because they must assess your health life story in a split second of time. Questions such as “how often do you drink alcohol?” and you’ll have to get real about it being your birthday week and all of your recent champagne toasts and bubbly consumption—way back a couple of days ago when life was perfect. 

Pushing the “staff assist” button instead of the nurses button presents a different outcome than you may expect and raises major alarms. But, still, nothing quite like the alarms set-off when the “code blue” button is inadvertently pressed. That is how I was introduced to what felt like the entire ER, and how I became an instant phenomenon when all I needed to do was use the restroom. Code blue, apparently, also causes one of your nurse assistants to “finish pooping” faster than he’s ever done in his life. 

The Rise
After several days down, and back at home, you may feel inspired to begin your rise in the kitchen, becoming a homemaker like that one season of life when the kids were super young—about 15 years ago—and you baked a lot of banana, cranberry and zucchini bread that Fall. Maybe you’ll want to make soup, or, perhaps, chili. You still have four bags of dried beans in the pantry you’ve had forever, and you want to go back to the old fashioned day roots you never had by starting something from scratch and soaking the beans. By the time the beans are soft and have expanded 100 times their size, you’re no longer in the mood for chili or cooking or thinking. And since you wouldn’t take up anyone’s offer to drop off things you might need, you’ll dial up a delivery service to bring you a single. cup. of. soup. 

Which brings me to a bit of advice for the family and friends of the sick human. Don’t wait to hear from the ill person—this goes for those who experience loss, too—about what they may need, desire or want in order to step up to be a hero for them. Be a bold giver: grab some comforts—soup, crackers, broth, cozy socks, a microwave bean bag, something warm to sip, a book or magazine, a card or flowers—to drop off on their doorstep. Send a text as you drive away to let them know your heart is with them and even though illness can feel lonely—whether or not we desire to be alone when we are hurting—they are cared for, and they are not alone.

And then there will be birds. Or other aspects of life you will notice in the quiet space inherent when an illness stops your world for a spell. The stillness of that stopping lends a precious and rare opportunity to take notice of your surroundings again. Not the mounting heap of laundry or dumped out bin of toys—are those never not in our field of understanding?—but things like the birds eating bright red berries off of a snow-covered tree to the left of your front window. And, upon further investigation, the mayhem and music dozens of them seem to be creating in the giant evergreen tree off the deck. Always listen for the birds. It pulls you into the moment, allows you to pause over the magnificence of life around you while reminding you to be oh so grateful for another day of your own existence. 

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To the bugs—their lessons—and to the birds, 

Stephanie Regalado 

stephanie@spokanecda.com