Tweet How do I do sick? I crawl into the darkness of my room, zip myself into a sleeping bag before piling dozens of heavy blankets and down comforters over me, take a swig of NyQuil and sleep. I sleep and sleep and sleep until I need to pee and/or vomit at which time I will crawl into the bathroom before retreating to the quiet safety of my darkened room.
I like to be alone.
I like to be unbothered.
I like to maintain my NyQuil-induced drug haze in silent isolation.
Knowing I had to somehow care for my family despite having contracted the bubonic plague (it's the curse of Motherhood; I'm sure you know it all too well) I managed to pull a pack of pork chops out of the freezer and placed them next to a box of Shake'n Bake. They'd be thawed by the time Big V returned from work. The family would not starve. I am a good woman.
I took another heavy dose of NyQuil and jumped willingly into the crazy dreams the black licorice meds produced.
"Hey. Hey!" I was being shook awake. I stared wide-eyed at V. "The kids are hungry."
Who the hell was this guy and why was he talking about children?
"Are you going to get up and make dinner?"
For the love. Now I remembered.
No. I'm dying. Make pork chops.
"I don't know how."
It says it right on the box.
He left me in peace. Twelve seconds later he returned.
"I don't understand it."
Read the box!
"I did. It says," (and this is where he lifted the box in front of him and read the instructions written on the box of Shake'n Bake, oblivious to the fact that I could give a rat's ass.) "....set the oven for 425 degrees, put the seasonings in the bag and then shake the pork chop in it."
That's all you do.
"Hold on. Let me turn the oven on first...." (and he ran out of the room to go turn the oven on so he could come back and harass me for just a little bit longer.) "Ok. The oven is set to 425. Now what?"
What does the box say?
"It says to put the seasonings in the bag; I get that, but how does it stick on the pork chops? Do I have to get it wet?"
Get. Dotter. My voice is weak.
Get. Dotter. I say again, gasping for breath.
"Dotter! Your mom wants you!"
The shy, little 9-year old peeks her head in the doorway. "Mom wants me? But she doesn't like to be bothered when she's sick."
Dotter. I'm dying. You must make the pork chops or the other children will starve. And so will Big V. Can you make the pork chops, honey? Can you fulfill your dying mother's wish?
"Sure. Is it Shake'n Bake? Because that's really easy."