So I am home sick from work today--albeit after a beautiful excursion to Italy on a school trip. I actually first got sick on the trip, likely due to the combination of exhaustion, exposure to exotic Italian cold and flu viruses, and, of course, sharing boring old Canadian germs with 42 other people on a poorly ventilated bus. I thought I was getting better, until I came home with a wicked headache and the inability to breathe--in or out--by Wednesday afternoon. The spastic, phlegmy coughing has also intensified since then and here I am, a real treat to be around. A friend called last night and insisted she let me go since she couldn't stand to hear "my gross voice and hacking" anymore. Even the dog won't sit with me.
I used to love getting sick as a kid. I don't know why. Maybe, subconsciously, I still do. Feeling helpless isn't exactly appealing, but for some reason the lack of choices (and responsibility) certainly is. A typical work day is comprised of hundreds of decisions, from the trivial to the profound. An afternoon at home on the couch? Very few options. What to wear? Sweatpants, obviously. What to eat? Soda crackers, of course. What to do? Other than nap, you mean? I guess there is always HBO on Demand or, at worst, HGTV. There is really nothing to decide, and that is liberating.
When I was little I was sick all the time. I have always been an obsessive-compulsive germaphobe, only then I didn't know there was a label for it. I was actually sick so often that I developed projects to be completed on sick days. I figured that if I was home sick, I might as well do something. For some reason, I was inspired to map and remap the City of Hamilton. I used several sheets of bristol board and began with my own neighbourhood, as if the city revolved around me and my family. I would use city maps when I got too far from the epicentre, and then would proceed to replan the city from the perspective of an eight-year-old. I must have used 6 to 8 sheets of bristol board, because the final map was far too big to be unfurled in my bedroom, and instead had to be opened in the basement.
I would also sketch floor plans for my own and my friends' and family's future homes. I had an entire sketchbook full of blueprints. Then I would use the Sears catalogue to shop for and record the items with which I would fill my future house. I actually made spreadsheets to record and organize items according to room allocation and usage. None of this makes any sense to me now.
What does make sense is that I forced my younger brother to play both school and library, two "games" he hated. I wrote grammar lessons on our blue Smurfs chalkboard and even made small envelopes and cue cards to attach to the back pages of all of our books so that my brother could check them out. My mom supported these dreams by buying me a date stamp and a red ink pad, a gift for which I was eternally grateful. But I couldn't play these games while I was sick. No. Sick time was solitude time. Just me, my sketch book, and my bristol board maps.
