It’s difficult being ill when you got a little one. I think back to all those times I used to just curl up on the sofa, while my mum would bring me soup and wet flannels. I wouldn’t even have to put them on my own head. It’s nice to have someone to look after you.
But it’s all different when you are the parent. There is someone dependant on you, who (in the early stages) doesn’t quite understand that no, you can’t play with them all the time and no, you can’t go to the park today. Quite frankly, it’s a miracle you stumbled out of bed when your throat feels like it’s on fire – matching the rest of your feverish body – and a cough that could bring the house down. I feel so weak.
But really, it’s only glandular fever. It’s not going to kill me. I will get better in a relatively short period of time. There will be no lasting complications, no ‘what if’ and no wondering if I will be around, because I will be.
I was reading the news as usual this morning, as I came across the tragic story of Karina Menzies, just 32 years old, who was one of the victims of a hit-and-run. It wasn’t an accident. It was an act of madness, evil and cruelty beyond comprehension. The story goes that she sacrificed her life for that of two of her children who were with her as the van aimed for the pedestrians on a fire station forecourt. Her children are aged 23 months and eight. She died because in an instant she knew what she had to do.
It’s just awful and heart-wrenching. I know that I would do the same in a situation where it was my life of my son’s. I know that I would save him no matter what without a moments hesitation.
Such is a mother’s love. It is unfaltering in its strength.