Ok, Mom... You Win

Since I have been sick for a while, and since my hoarse voice makes me sound like a man (actually, yesterday a teenage girl told me I sound like "one of those people who smokes too much and gets cancer and has to have a surgery and press a button on their throat to talk"), quite a few people have asked me if I have been to the doctor yet. I had not gone, because Chris and I were both sick initially, and he did visit the doctor, and was told it was just a cold that would pass (and in his case, it did). Besides, I've talked to a lot of people that said they had the same thing, and that it just took a while to kick the cough.

But a couple days ago I talked to my mom on the phone. And by talked I mean, I croaked a little bit until she felt sorry for me and let me go back to bed. But, during the course of the "conversation," my mom asked if I had seen a doctor yet. This was a big deal, coming from my mother, the nurse who very rarely took me to the doctor when I was young--even if I was certain that I had sprained my ankle on the stairs and needed crutches. Her reply was always something like, "if it still hurts in a couple weeks, we'll see about going to the doctor." Of course my mother really did care about me--she just had a knack for knowing when to give it a day or two (or two weeks) and when to actually be alarmed. For instance, the day I went roller-skating down a steep hill and fell and ripped my favorite white pants (yes, I was a senior in high school at the time, and yes, I realize now that they were very ugly pants--even in the 90s)... I came home complaining about pain in my shoulder, but saying that I was sure I'd be fine. My mom put me straight into the car and drove me to the emergency room, where they attended to my broken collarbone. Call it mother's intuition--but it might have helped that my astute mother noticed the fact that all those times I tripped on the stairs, I could still walk on my alleged sprained ankle, but that after my roller-skating escapade I couldn't even move my arm that I was sure would be just fine ("Can't someone please just help me fix my ripped pants?!")

Back to a day or two ago, when I was talking to my mom on the phone and she asked about whether or not I had seen a doctor yet about this sickness I haven't been able to kick. I am older and (somewhat) wiser now, so when I heard my mom mention a doctor, I decided that was my cue, and I better listen to that little voice inside my head: yes, Nancy... it is time to go to the doctor now--even if that means actually getting out of bed, putting lots of deodorant on, trying to find clean clothes, and begging someone to watch your children for you.

And so I went. And wouldn't you know it--my mom was right?! Just a slight case of walking pneumonia, but nothing an inhaler and a few days of antibiotics can't take care of. Now if I could just get my mommy to come take care of me...

(Yes, the photo is actually of my mother--1966)