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I don't do illness very well -- probably like lot of doctors' children (worse still in my case, a child of a doctor and a registered nurse). Like the tailor's children and their shoeless feet, we were generally considered inconvenient at best when ill, and sitting at home with stomach flu made us good candidates for stationary quiet tasks like matching the socks in the 'sock box'. God I HATED the sock box, a cardboard box next to the dryer into which all the socks went (waiting I suppose for a childhood illness to produce a sock processor, usually me). My socks and my mom's socks were easy as we had girly socks of different sizes and colours, hence simple to pair. I hated doing my brothers' stupid boys' tube socks, as they almost all looked the same: you had to go by the coloured bars at the top and whether they were mid-calf or knee high. But I loathed and dreaded my father's socks -- almost all were dark blue or black and made of a horrible nylon blend popular at the time (and therefore full of static and scary unexpected shocks). There seemed to be hundreds of them and trying to tell apart the blues and blacks and then differentiating between teensy weensy barely visible knitted-in patterns made a small child squint like James Joyce strugging to read the final proofs of Finnegans Wake. In addition I clearly recall how we were never allowed to stay at home from school with something as wimpy as a severe cold or a stomach ache. Only if we had the stomach flu, symbolised by needing one of the metal mixing bowls by the bedside to accommodate the presumed inability of small legs to get us down the hall to the bathroom fast enough, were we allowed to stay at home. But as soon as we weren't being serially sick, in came the sock box to obviously idle hands (of course my brothers, being boys, never had to to do the socks and when ill, got to lie about in bed with their metal bowl, unpestered by anything other than the microbes in their bellies). Years later imagine my distress when I found out this wasn't a universal experience; that SOME children looked back dreamily on times when they were ill, relishing memories of kind mothers nursing them as they lay on the sofa at home, soft pillows and a duvet plumped about them as they watched television and drank cocoa (WITH marshmallows even!). Television in daytime! Not in our house! Of course I grilled my mother. "But I made you strong," she said, and both adults now, we burst out laughing. I love that line -- I often tease her about it. And of course she did make us strong -- I love being physically active, hate being sick, find it tedious and dull, want to get back to doing normal things (just not the sock box). And also hate TV in the daytime (and most of it in the nighttime, too). I am sure all three of us kids also inherited a doctor's tendency to regard illness with some disbelief and impatience -- illness is for other people, not us! It does help that we have my mother's family's impeccable genes, with little illness and lots of longevity (my grandmother is 99, her parents passed away at 96 and 97, her 'little sister' is 94 and 'little brother', my rock and rolling Great Uncle Joe, who emails jokes to all of us on a regular basis, is in his late 80s). So imagine my annoyance to be struck by (apparently) sciatica this week -- one minute standing there in the bathroom, normal as can be, next moment, doubled over like a crone and only able to walk like a shuffling bag lady. As if that weren't enough I then managed to make myself quite ill from a bad reaction to painkillers, a bit scary at the time. Fortunately I had a doctor to call for a free consultation back in the US (even if I did resent years of matching his indiscernible socks). Since then it has been a gradual recovery of movement -- a real and literal pain when you need to walk a gang of small dogs several times daily and have a million other things you want to do. With luck I'll be back on my trademark bicycle by the weekend and I don't intend to see a repeat. Mom better have made us strong enough, that's all I have to say!