Carol’s Column

When death is a welcome release

I knew I was going to die.

I had a trickle in my nose. My chest felt constricted and my throat was distinctly sore.

“I am critically ill,” I announced to my family. “My head is aching, my knee joints are creaking, my elbows hurt and I am going to spend the day in bed.”

Sympathetic, thoughtful, they were consideration itself.

“Ma, I’ll carry you upstairs,” offered my youngest, unmarried son, smiling his charming 12-year-old smile, his crooked teeth an orthodontist’s joy and revenue, glinting in the electric light-bulb light.

“No, let me,” said my oldest, and lifting me up in his porridge-with-protein-strengthened arms, he carried me to bed.

It wasn’t his fault that he dropped me causing my coccyx to bump and grind and jolt my stomach up into my chest cavity.

I staggered into the bedroom and crawled weakly between the sky-blue, slip-proof, silk sheets we’d won as first prize in a raffle.

Snuggled under the duvet, switched on my electric blanket and sizzled happily away.

What bliss, peace and quiet. Five minutes in bed and I was already feeling better.

I had just fallen asleep when I heard a distant pounding. I unpacked an ear. Good Lord, someone was breaking down the door.

It opened, and there stood my second son, carrying a tray.

“I’ve brought you breakfast in bed to make you feel better,” he said proudly.

This was not the time to tell him that the sight of damp toast, cold tea and rubber eggs brought a lump to my throat.

Not a lump of joy.

“It’ll give you strength, Ma,” he said, feeding me slowly lest I miss a bite.

The effort of eating exhausted me.

“Thanks, I feel much stronger,” I muttered, “all I need is a little rest and I’ll be as right as rain.”

“Don’t worry, Ma, we’ll look after you,” said Ralph as he gently left the room.

I shuddered. That was what worried me.

I slept almost uninterruptedly for an hour.

Almost?

A gentle, awakening shake from my husband who looked concerned.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered, “it’s only a touch of flu.”

“It’s not you I’m worrying about. I lost Nicky at the supermarket among the baked beans.”

“So, relax, we’ve got three other children we haven’t used yet.” I shut my eyes.

Then:

“Ma, Jamie’s left arm is stuck down the toilet bowl and I can’t get it out.”

“So, leave it,” I muttered, “it’ll keep him quiet.”

“Ma, he dropped his merit badge down the toilet and he was trying to get it back – it’s serious, what shall I do?”

“Phone the school and tell them Jamie and his merit badge have been flushed away, apologise and say it’s just one of those things.”

I was jolted out of my deep sleep by the most horrible sound I’d ever heard.

Sawing and screeching. My mother-in-law?

The screeching continued – she didn’t have that much stamina.

It was the municipal tree fellers sawing a hole through the huge jacaranda situated directly outside the bedroom window.

They only stopped when I attacked the chief feller with Barry’s hockey stick. He’s lucky: I’d lent our sawn-off rifle to my aunty Heather who was having noise problems with her neighbours.

Later, my husband took my temperature, “Normal,” he said, “you’re as fit as a horse. You just think you’re ill.”

I was too tired to tell him he’d put the thermometer in upside down. Anyway, did it matter?

“You rest,” he said after I’d re-connected the snapped washing machine hose, cleaned the spark plugs on the lawnmower and found my missing false teeth so that I could swallow my tablets. “You’re looking a little pale. I’ll make lunch.”

And so he did on a tray with a wilting rose placed strategically beside a can of tuna, opened, a can of guavas, unopened, and a shrivelled pickled cucumber.

So who needs fresh pickled cucumbers?

“I’ll make you chicken soup for supper,” he promised, “the real thing, a chicken, giblets, feet, feathers, the lot. You’ll feel like a new man.”

Just then, my good friend Betty phoned. I could barely hear her.

“Hi,” she croaked and wheezed, “I’ve got flu, I’m feeling rotten.”

“Don’t talk,” I commiserated; “don’t talk, I think I’m going to die.”

She was ecstatic. “Really, you too? Well come and join me. We can open a bottle of wine and be critically ill together.”

“I’m on my way, I’ll see you in seven minutes.”

“I’m not at home,” she remarked as I was about to hang up. “Nobody in their right senses would get sick at home, that’s madness. I’ve booked into a 5-star hotel and right now I’m enjoying my misery with a smoked salmon and chilled artichoke-heart snack – superb for a sore throat.”

“Will we see you again?” asked my spouse as I departed in a taxi. Of course, I was far too ill to drive.

“Sure, as soon as I’m better, in a month or so.”

That’s what friendship’s all about, I thought to myself later, as we swallowed our antibiotics, nibbled caviar and watched TV in blessed peace and quiet.

Of course, my family phoned to ask how I was. They were concerned, which is how it should be.

I looked at Betty who was in the process of gargling with the iced champers.

“We’re getting better but it’s a slow process,” I observed.

“When will you be home?”

“I’ll let you know. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

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