the inside-out blessing of the summer fever
by bam
i wouldn’t wish it on anyone. but now that it’s settled into this old house, now that it’s felled the boy whose legs are almost too long to stretch across the couch, the one whose peach fuzz pokes out from under the ice-cold washcloth i lay across his brow, now that it’s given us hours and hours to spend in conversation that flows from idle to silly to whatever’s been corked inside his heart, the summer fever has its advantages.
most especially when it hits on Days 30, 29 and 28 of the countdown to college. in the undulations of fever, when the hours stretch on and the mercury rises again, we’ve burrowed deep into the gift of time spent inches away from each other.
i’ve pulled out all the ministrations he’s come to know by heart, the ones synonymous with being sick in the house where he grew up: the plastic cup filled with ice chips, doused in spoonfuls of honey; the stack of saltines for nibbling, the cold washcloth swirled through the ice-water basin that sits not far from where he lays. he knows the rhythms and sounds of being nursed back to vigor. he asks, from his sickbed, from under the washcloth, “what will i do if i get sick at college?” and i sense it’s one of only dozens of college what-ifs.
the thing about fevers is they take down the walls we wear like armor to get through the highs and lows of the days. fevers strip away the tough stuff, fevers peel away the pretense. fevers let loose what lurks deep inside.
and so these have been the tenderest days. days that wouldn’t have come if the fever hadn’t landed, hadn’t slowed the boy in his i’m-soaking-up-every-hour-with-friends tracks. most days, he’s a blur whirling in and out the front or back door, up the stairs to change from basketball in the sun to dusk at the beach. he’s quite brilliantly making the most of the signature summer, the last one of high school, the last before his tight band of brothers scatters like pool balls across the smooth green velvet that is america’s collegiate landscape.
and because my singular focus these days is soaking up my end of his equation, savoring these hours before it goes silent, before the sheets on his bed are unrumpled for weeks, before i set only two knives and two forks at the dinner table, i’m receiving the summer fever as a gift from the heavens. using the hours to press against his heart the truths i want him to seize: that he’s learned, under our tutelage, just how to fend for himself; that all these years in the crucible of our love is firm foundation for whatever comes his way; that i will always, always be only a phone call away (he actually told me this week he’s going to be calling a lot — this from the kid whose version of a long phone call is three sentences before the dial tone comes).
and, of course, that i will always make house calls.
we’ve even used these hours and days to turn back the clock, to pull from the bookshelf the books he loved as a wee little fellow. he’s curled his hot self beside me as i’ve read and turned pages, followed the antics of poor james and the most giant peach. it’s not a bad thing to take a time-out, to review in real time the idiosyncrasies of how you were loved. in sickness and in health. on good days and days that were not.
it’ll be a long time is my guess till the trusty old washcloth, the one with magical powers, gets pulled from the shelf, and lovingly draped on the very hot brow of the boy i’ve loved through it all.
and now it’s time for the fever to go, and the trusty old washcloth with it….
did you grow up with particular idiosyncrasies on the days you were sick, and someone nursed you back to raring to go?
this brings back so many memories of such days with my son. so glad you’re savoring the days, barb. he’ll treasure them.
as does his mother…..
i cannot for the life of me fathom how we get to the end of this chapter quite so swiftly. i see mothers of young children, mothers with limbs and squirming bodies draped all over them, and i want to tap them on the shoulder and pass along the secret: hold on tight, this too passes too swiftly…..(i guess that’s the truth of time’s passing on…..we become the ones with the stored institutional unshakeable knowledge…..)
How lovely!!! Glad he’s feeling better, but what wonderful down time!💜
Sent from my iPhone
>
amen.
First, the sentence I wish I’d written: “…the last before his tight band of brothers scatters like pool balls across the smooth green velvet that is america’s collegiate landscape.” Perfection.
I’m so glad T wasn’t out of commission long, but that interlude between action-packed days with his buds might stay with him longer, be stored deeper, than the rest of this summer’s memories.
Our forest green couch in the living room was my daytime sick bay when I was in grade school. A plate of Saltines and a glass of room-temp (slightly flat) ginger ale were within easy reach on the blond mid-century modern coffee table. The TV was straight ahead for entertainment, such as 1930s movies on WGN (although in the days before remotes, I’d have to wait for my mother to switch channels). But I usually nestled in blankets and read. Even now, a sick day is a total loss if I can’t get in a long stretch of reading between naps..
How lovely that you two revisited favorite childhood books. They are a comfort always.
P.S. Finally made the blueberry slump last weekend. It is my new favorite summer baked dessert. Thank you!
Ah, dear dear Karen, your description of the long ago soothes me. Through words we can return in spirit to the safe cocoons of our past. Your brush strokes filled me with smiles.
Soooo happy the slump now is yours!!!
Xoxox
My mom nursed us back to health with ginger ale and saltines. On one memorable occasion when I was 10 or so, my dad mixed up a hot toddy for me. What were they thinking? It certainly took my mind off what ailed me.
With my own little ones, we served orange fizzes (half OJ-half 7UP) and cool washcloths for fevers and hot tea doctored up with honey for colds and sore throats. The treatment tradition continues. When Sarah was sick this winter, I was giving my prescription for what to do when her new hubby told me that he had already mixed up an orange fizz.
OHHHHHHHH!!!! that is SOOOOO sweet! i am wiping away a saturday morning tear here! i love that…..bless his heart!
love the hot toddy story, too! oh, holy mackerel! xoxoxox
Homemade tapioca pudding … still warm from the stovetop 🙂
ohhhhhhh, you just made me hungry here on a rainy chicago morning. xoxoxoxoxo
“…and i sense it’s one of only dozens of college what-ifs.”
“i’ve pulled out all the ministrations…”
The details in this last summer essay form an exquisite portrait of family life. I was all over the feeling and the sensories of your beautiful piece.
To answer your question, my mother swears by the healing powers of her chicken soup but I don’t recall it eating it when sick, always in holidays, though. With me at the helm, my daughters would say that we had our line up of remedies to get well, some a bit woo but no less effective for that. Our last last summer before college was four years ago and both go straight to those things in their away-from-home lives.
my heart was in my throat the morning i wrote this, and it seems fully lodged there this morning, as the weight of the getting closer, the increasing-by-the-day tenderness of the sweet boy, is all serving to push me into a place i’d not imagined. it’s a heaviness, a weight, that presses against the heart and lungs.
grief — as i think of those grieving all around this country, especially el paso and dayton, and the litany of sorrows in the shadow of so much, too much, bloodshed — is an unbearable force. as physical and real as any limb, any part of us. how do they bear it? i send up prayers in hopes that force of love might be a fulcrum that helps to lift the agonies….