Probably once or twice a year, I come down with something. Either the flu, a cold, or as recent history illustrates a mysterious tonsil illness brought on by what I'll vaguely refer to here as a bad month.
Every time I do, I'm grateful for health. I also realize I'm a big baby.
I've been independent from my parents for quite some time now, but I was never as grateful in the moment as I should have been when I got sick and my mom took care of me. She'd make me soup, bring me water and juice, and just plain make me feel better.
Now it's up to me to pull myself out of bed to get a drink, or make something to eat, or dig through my cabinet for some medicine. I realize that life will never be the same as it was.
These are adult things and they are so different. Why did I have to grow up?
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