There are infinite types of sickness, loosely defined as the act of being affected by illness, physical or mental. Sick can run the gamut from needing to take a day off after working in the hot sun too long to gathering the wagons and making your last wishes known. It is sniffles. It is the inability to slow down your brain even though that’s the only thing you want. It is cancer. It is the unwillingness of your heart to continue beating. It is certainly this Voldemort affliction we live in fear of today but dare not speak of. “I’m sick” is both something you tell your toddler on a Saturday morning when your headache means you don’t feel like getting up at 6 am and the first line over coffee when you don’t know how to tell your mom that some personified, potentially terminal demon is threatening your very existence. I’ve had these conversations, both of them. The latter one is disturbing as it starts with nausea and ends with tears. Sick, if I may give it a personality and use it as a proper noun, is scary because it almost always brings its tacky cousin Pain along for the joyride. You never know about Pain. Will he leave as soon as he gets vamped by a wicked city woman or will he stay way past his welcome? There’s your loosely veiled I Love Lucy reference. Pain and Sick are the ultimate villain tag team. The Joker was a bad dude. But, when The Joker and Catwoman joined forces, look out. There’s no defeating Cesar Romero and Julie Newmar. So, being sick is scary. There’s only one thing more terrifying – being the person who takes care of the person who is sick.
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