Sick Room

I was closed up in a darkened room. The trajectory of mist that shot toward me caused a droning- muffling the sound of life beyond the door. If I postponed sleep, the dream would not come.  The insanity of watching car tires rotate mile after mile created a monotony that was unbearable.  The smell of pungent rubber was intense, I swear I could taste it.  The hours, blackened by night and sickness, dragged heavily. Morning would not come soon. I concentrated on the hum of the vaporizer and when I opened my eyes again, I saw shafts of light break into the room.

I was eight and in third grade.  That was my sickly year having missed two or more weeks of school.  Day after day, I would lie in my mother and father’s double bed.  Most days too ill to do much beyond sleep and watch old re-runs on a small black and white T.V.   The small screen doctor, Marcus Welby, made house calls like my Dr. O’Sullivan and later Lucy and Ethel crushed grapes into wine.  Early each morning my mother brought me breakfast on a tray.  Sometimes an egg, other times toast.  Midmorning I would have a thinly, sliced orange sprinkled with powdered sugar.  “This is what my mother made me when I was sick,” she wanted me to know.  Sometime early in the day, my mother opened both windows in the small bedroom to air out the sickness. I shivered under the layers of blankets. Alcohol baths lowered a fever.   Fresh pajamas followed by a good layer of Vick Vapor Rub on my chest and back usually set the course for sleep. 

Thankfully, it was not long before I outgrew the recurring dream of rolling tires, but even today when I visit a Tire Department and smell the rubber, my stomach feels unsettled.  Yet, when I close my eyes the fragrance of Vick Vapor Rub plants an aching in my heart.  No one loved me like my mother. She took good care of me.