A few weeks ago, I came down with a terrible case of the flu. After all I have done over the course of the pandemic, I never contracted COVID-19 (knock on wood). As soon as the mask mandate was relaxed, BAM! No surprise. We all saw the spike in post mask-mandate sickness coming. As horrible as I felt, I still consider myself to be quite fortunate. Not only did I avoid sickness for so long, but I also see this pause in my life as a much needed physical and mental reprieve – a reset, if you will. As the saying goes, if we do not take care of ourselves, God will take care of us. Sometimes his care is disguised as a high fever, body aches, and stinky, sweaty sheets.

As I lay in bed that first sick day, feeling achy, cold, hot, sweaty, and just downright miserable, I missed my mommy. I was tempted to call her and ask her to come over to just be there. I lay in agony, reminiscing about the only time in childhood I remember feeling this sick. I was home alone, too sick to move, crying because I felt so alone. I called my mom at work and begged her to come home. She did, and although she could do nothing to take away my pain, simply knowing she was in the next room made me feel relaxed and finally able to sleep.

My thoughts jumped to the only other time I remember having the flu as an adult – sometime in 1996. Back then, Brad and I were both sick and took care of one another. That was a good memory.

My thoughts jumped once again to the last time I had these body aches, sweated through my sheets, and longed for the suffering to end. It was during the early days of chemo treatment – before I fell apart and my sister took over my care. I felt too weak to eat – too lonely to care – begged for death – and depressed each morning I woke up again.

I decided to stop treatment. I could not go through it anymore – and I knew stopping treatment meant I would likely die. Death seemed like the best and only option to stop the misery.

Then my sister called on that fateful day – the day I decided to stop treatment – divine intervention. She made sure someone was there every chemo week to make sure I got to my appointments, ate, and was never left alone. The rides and the meals were great, but the best medicine was company – lying in bed feeling miserable but grateful just knowing someone who loved and cared for me was just feet away.

As I lay in my current bodily misery, I realized I did not need to call my mommy. I may live alone, but I live on my dad’s property. He was just a phone call away and I rarely needed to call him. He called me first to check on me. He brought me food whether I asked for it or not. I had everything I needed. I may be creeping toward age 50, but I am convinced we never outgrow our need to be cared for every once in a while.

When I am that sick, I want to be left alone. Do not talk to me. Do not touch me. I beg for oblivion. Still, the comfort of knowing someone cares and is that close did/does more for my recovery than any medication the doctor could prescribe or even any prayers offered on my behalf. Their love in action when I need it the most – love without prompting – cannot be beaten.

I may be a loner, but I am never alone. For that, I am eternally grateful.