I Write. You Read.

For most of my adult life (and my childhood, for that matter, ever since my tonsillectomy in kindergarten) getting sick has not been an issue. It happens once in awhile — on the average of once a year, I’d guess — but it never really gets in the way. I can’t breath well for a couple of days or run a slight fever. There may be some vomiting involved. Unpleasant, but by no means debilitating. In fact, I’ve often felt good about being sick, because it gave me a guilt-free reason for missing work or being a slacker (the latter in which I indulge all too frequently without justification). Like going on vacation and getting a mild sunburn, it’s a pain but it fades in time. The important thing is the time off from everyday hassles.

I never worried about being around others who might be sick. A cough in the hallway was just a passing thought: “Sucks to be them. If I had a cough like that I’d take the day off.” I rarely gave much thought to the idea that I could catch what they had or spread the plague myself. Discussion of the “flu season” only made me think in passing of Stephen King’s Captain Trips.

My, how parenthood changes things.

A cough or a sneeze, or worse a series of coughs or sneezes almost make my heart skip a beat. What if that’s contagious? Why aren’t they covering their mouth? Why for the love of God didn’t they stay home today if they’re feeling so badly? I ride to work on a combination of buses and trains, which in my darkest thoughts play the role of mobile incubators for disease. Don’t these people care about the children?

The first thing I do when I get home in the evening is kiss my son. What if my lips picked up something on the way home? Did I just pass that cough to my boy? I’ve come close to getting up and moving to a different train car because someone near me was coughing. The only thing that stopped me was a lack of an empty seat.

Almost worse than passing on a germ to Simon is the idea of getting his mother sick or falling ill myself. The two of us together have a hard enough time keeping our home going together. I shudder at the thought of one or both of us being incapacitated. I am the Provider. I must bring home the mammoth meat and wood for the fire. His mother is the Nurturer, without whom Simon would be scared and alone.

Looming beyond the specter of contagious disease is the knowledge that I’m by no means as healthy as I could be. While my yearly physical continues to show no signs of physical malady or malfunction, it’s obvious that I lack a proper balanced diet and a consistent regimen of exercise. As far as I can tell, these are the two most basic elements of long life and good health. I’m not too worried about my diet; I don’t eat a lot of junk food and Angie does a good job of keeping good stuff to eat in the house. I should probably eat more fruit and vegetables, but I don’t avoid them. Exercise, on the other hand…

I’m incredibly out of shape, whether or not it shows. I get out of breath when I walk up long flights of stairs, and Simon practically wore me out the other day while I was merely giving him a bath. I feel pathetic. What’s going to happen when he starts running around on his own little feet? I don’t feel like I’m in any danger of a heart attack — there haven’t been any warning signs — but there’s always a chance, right? I need to take better care of myself. I’ve started making use of the treadmill that we bought last year, but it’s the keeping up that has always given me more of a problem than the starting.

I realize there is a healthy dose of paranoia going on here. But I’m finding that I worry more about these things now, as a father. I have a lot more reasons to stay healthy than just to feel good about myself.

But if you cough and I run out of the room screaming, you’ll know why.