Mysterious Childhood Illnesses

When I was a kid, if I complained to my mother about an ache or a pain she would say, "You must have caught a cold in it." This made no sense to me. I knew what a cold looked like: it had nasal congestion, sore throat, coughing, sneezing and feeling wretched all over. I really couldn't see how a sore toe or aching back involved any of these symptoms. Was my big toe sneezing? No. Did my back have a runny nose? No, it did not. And yet, this was the best she could come up with, "You got a cold in it." 

I mention this because the Mister and I were talking the other day about illnesses we hear about other people having. We are in our 60s, after all, and conversations in our age bracket are liberally peppered with terrible, tragic things that happen to people. We are closer to our ultimate lifespan and demise than ever before in our lives, and ecstatically grateful that we've made it this far, but we just pray none of these horrors happens to us, at least not any of the, "Oh, my heaven, did you have any IDEA it was even POSSIBLE for a person's body to do that?"

I told the Mister about my mother's favorite diagnosis. Seems his dad had similar all-occasion medical advice; "It's just growing pains." Really? Growing hurts? What if I get taller? I don't like pain! I don't want to grow!

What was this dismissive attitude our parents had toward our childhood complaints? Didn't they realize that we overheard their conversations with other adults whispering about people's terrifying ailments? Aren't they the ones that left the Reader's Digest on the toilet tank for anyone, mainly their kid, to pick up and read all those ghastly stories about some poor person with some appalling illness or injury? If I went to my mother with the Reader's Digest in hand and wailed, "Look! Mom! My arm! My arm! I have what this person has!" she'd dismiss me with her patented, "No, you don't. You caught a cold in it."

To make matters worse, their utter lack of concern was totally at odds with the bedtime prayers they insisted we recite, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should DIE before I wake….." Seriously? This could happen? What kind of prayer is that for a kid? What was their agenda anyway? "You're not seriously sick, kid. Heh heh. But MAYBE we'll see you in the morning." Wide awake. For hours.

And their preventative medicine wasn't any hell either. "Eat your oatmeal. It'll stick to your ribs." Well, now, doesn't that sound gruesome? "Eat your shepherd's pie. It'll put hair on your chest." Oh, yeah, that's what a seven-year old girl wants to hear.

To give them the benefit of the doubt, maybe our parents' lakadaisical stand was a reasonable tactic to quell rising panic. Kind of a, "Don't sweat the small stuff," approach. Or when you skin your knee and they say, "You're fine. Pick your feet up next time." They might have intended it as preparation for adulthood when we've now learned to discern between a sniffle that will take care of itself in a few days and, "I should probably get this wheezing checked out." 

Anyway, it always amuses me when my sciatica flares up and I avoid going to the chiropractor, thinking to myself, "Oh, you just got a cold in it." No need to panic. 

But I'm canceling the Reader's Digest subscription.