Julie Jay: I often fantasise about a spell in the sick wing

When I fell ill I imagined the house was going to fall apart in the absence of my constant cleaning and organising efforts - but turns out I am pretty dispensible

FOR the last two weeks, I have been coughing like a Victorian street urchin and have the crumpled-up tissues to prove it. Like many mammies, I often fantasise about a spell in the sick wing. My imagined illness is never anything too ‘dairíre’, just something that requires complete isolation and a darkened room with minimal interruptions, occasional cups of tea and lots of questionably flavoured sucky sweets. Of course, the reality of being sick is always a bit more ick than the fantasy would have you believe.

Having fought illness for a few days, I eventually relented and accepted I was sick on the one sunny day of the year. But I didn’t take to the bed without first putting up a proper mammy fight.

At one point, I trundled over to the playground with Ted, jelly legs and all, before finding a seesaw to steady myself. If you’re unfamiliar with seesaws, they are not designed for relaxing, and so I ended up with a serious case of sea sickness when I emerged from the organised fun an hour later.

As I puréed some carrots for the baby, I insisted to anyone who would listen that I was absolutely fine and that today was the perfect day to rearrange the kids’ clothing into new storage boxes.

This burst of energy lasted a mere ten minutes before I collapsed in a heap of baby clothes. Moments later, my husband found me, swiftly followed by my three-year-old, who announced it was time for me to get up with all the authority of a Mother Superior.

“Are you sure you’re able to gig tonight?” my husband asked as I presented the baby with his puréed carrot and a few sneezes to add a bit of garnish.

Of course I am, I attempted to say, but instead, I spluttered to such an extent that even my three-year-old rolled his eyes to heaven at the histrionics of it all.

It was then that my voice went completely, and I resigned myself to living the rest of my days as Helen Hunt’s non-speaking character in The Piano, complete with bonnet and dramatic New Zealand backdrop.

At that moment, my auntie arrived, ready to assist in babysitting for my imminent South Kerry gig.

“She has no voice,” my husband noted because he’s observant like that.

“Sure, you can’t gig without your voice,” my auntie said because she doesn’t get showbiz.

Did not having a voice hold J Lo back? Did it heck!

“I can gig,” I wrote in crayon on the back of a cereal box.

Of course, I couldn’t do the gig, so I cancelled the show and realised at that moment how Adele must have felt when she cancelled Vegas. Thinking of the hundreds of Kenmare residents who must surely be devastated at my cancellation, I was riddled with a newfound strain of guilt—that of performance, a nice remix of my usual guilt of choice, parental.

Being a parent means denying yourself the privilege of being sick because parenting is 24/7, whether tanked up on cough syrup or not. Not wanting to keep the boys awake that night, I made the huge personal sacrifice of sleeping in the guest bedroom, waking up the following morning to my three-year-old standing at the door shouting: “Daddy! I found Mammy.”

I’m so glad I was located before somebody called the guards.

Silhouetted by the door, my husband reassured me: “JJ’s asleep and I’m just taking Ted up to football.”

I grunted but didn’t even open my eyes, waiting instead to hear the door click and allowing myself to slip into a deep, deep slumber.

As I lay in bed, life went on. I heard lunches being made, games being played, and laughter—actual laughter. Part of me was heartened, yet another part was furious that they were having such a good time, what with me suffering from what was a mysterious Grey’s Anatomy illness.

Listening to the fun continue in my absence though, I was mostly relieved. So much so that upon hearing the remote-control tractors crash into one another, I breathed a huge sigh of relief (through my mouth, of course, because my nose was too congested to breathe any other way).

Two cups of tea and toast were delivered throughout the day, and the only low moment came when my husband arrived at the bedroom door with a curry. My dry-retching told him this was a bad idea and he reversed much like Homer Simpson through the hedge, realising that anything involving a chopped onion is a step too far for somebody whose blood is currently made up of 75% Strepsils.

When I emerged from my self-made sick bay that evening, I professed to feeling slightly better. Just as I did, my husband gave a somewhat exaggerated cough.

“I think I’m coming down with something myself, actually,” he said, which will no doubt be how he ends the eulogy at my funeral mass when I slip off this mortal coil.

You see, if you’re sick, there is a 100% guarantee your husband will also be stricken with the exact same ailment upon your recovery. Because that, my friends, is just marital science.