Parenting is a job with no sick leave. The idea of rest and recuperation when I get sick is a joke. Occasionally I get a nap, dinner cooked, or an extra hour to sleep in, but real rest? It's impossible. And in our house, with a baby in child care, a child in kindergarten, and one parent who's a schoolteacher, there's quite a germ pool floating around.
      Whenever I get sick, I remember with longing the good old days, when I could have the flu and stay in bed, dozing and reading a book, kicking back and watching TV, getting up for a snack, and then going back to bed for yet another nap. I could call in sick to work and have time off to take care of myself. Being sick was like a vacation, a time-out. Sure it could be unpleasant and uncomfortable, but I appreciated the chance to zone out for a few days.

      Once Justin was born, my relationship with illness changed dramatically. Now it is the part of parenting I dread the most. Each sickness is like an endurance test which I inevitably fail.
      I tend toward chronic bronchitis and I've had it several times each year since Justin was born. I'm just coming out of a month-long bout with it now. It started quietly, in an unassuming sort of way, with a dry cough that irritated, but didn't go anywhere. At night, I'd start to fall asleep, and there it would be, annoying me, teasing me, keeping me up for hours. I'd hack and hack, unable to get comfortable, unable to rest.
      Each day the cough deepened and hurt more. I couldn't read to the kids because my words would be interrupted with long, violent, coughing fits. My head pounded with each new barrage of coughing.
      As the bronchitis settled deeper into my chest, I began to face each morning with dread. Emily was still nursing, and it felt like she was draining away the little life energy I had left. Justin also had a cold and a cough, and he was cranky, demanding, and irritable. Each day I felt worse and worse as a parent. As the weeks of illness piled up, I couldn't remember ever feeling happy, vibrant, more than marginally alive.
      The more exhausted I became, the more things deteriorated. Many days, I would have sold my soul for a nap, for some quiet, some peace, some solitude. Justin and Emily seemed to sense this and their behavior changed accordingly. Their fights intensified. Their clinginess increased. They sensed that Mama Vicky wasn't there any more, that a stranger had taken her place, and they did everything they could to bring "me" back. They got louder, shriller, and more demanding, and things went downhill from there.
      As the days wore on, I became convinced that I was a lousy parent, that my shortcomings were permanent and that Justin and Emily would be better off with someone else. I lashed out at them more times than I care to admit. Each time, I'd apologize to them for being mean, for scaring them. But then, half an hour later, I'd feel trapped and triggered again, unable to find those "inner resources" I vaguely remember being able to dip into. I was depleted. Used up. I had nothing to give them but my frustration and helplessness.

      During this past month, I've had more of a visceral understanding of child abuse than I've ever had before. It felt to me like I was drowning with my children, and there was no rescue in sight.
      After one particularly bad day, I confessed my shortcomings to Joan. I told her I felt like I was failing the kids, that I was becoming the parent I never wanted to be. I told her I was sure that things would never change. She reminded me how sick I was, and how long I'd been sick. She reminded me that depression is a symptom of lung disease. I tried to listen to her through my bronchitis-induced fog. "Well, perhaps, she is right," I thought, in the midst of yet another coughing fit. But inside, I was convinced that she should be the at-home parent, so I could be off in the world, far away, doing as little damage to our kids as possible.

      Finally, after three-and-a-half weeks of acupuncture and herbs, Joan told me she was worried I had pneumonia and dragged me off to the doctor. Thankfully, my lungs were clear, but since the bronchitis had dragged on so long, the doctor put me on a 5-day course of antibiotics. After I took the first two pills, I cried with relief. Maybe I really was going to get better. Maybe I wasn't going to live this half-life forever.
      Now, just four days later, I can feel my "self" starting to come back. I have turned the proverbial corner and suddenly, I feel full of ideas and hope and energy. My sense of humor is returning and my inner resources are gathering strength. Suddenly, I remember what it feels like to be well. And the weird thing is, a week from now, I'll forget what it was like to be so sick...until the next time. In my life, health and illness are a strange paradox. They're like two worlds that never collide.
      Now, standing at the crossroads, with a foot in either world, I feel humbled by my illness, grateful for every moment I feel well. When I think about my friends who face chronic illness, I count my blessings. I hope my health, and the health of my family, is not something I squander or take for granted again.