I thank my lucky stars, every day, for the opportunity to be a farmer. But, for all its benefits and advantages over other occupations, the ability to call in sick is not one of them. Fortunately, I’ve been blessed with relatively good health throughout my lifetime, with my only serious affliction having been a series of back surgeries some 20 years ago. Even then, with the boys still at home, necessary day-to-day chores were completed by them and my wife during my recuperation. Cows don’t care who feeds them as long as they’re fed.
Two weeks ago, I came down with the worst sickness I’ve encountered in many years. High fever, nausea, achiness, fatigue and general malaise set in just as a major ice-storm and brutally cold temperatures blanketed my little corner of the world. Since both sons are grown and gone, my wife eagerly volunteered to do the feeding, but with slick roads and frozen gates, I was fearful to let her go out alone. I felt so ill, however, that I did suggest that she could ride along to open gates and chop the frozen net-wrap off the bales, surmising that I could make it if I didn’t have to get out of the truck. She bundled up against the cold and rode along to accomplish those tasks while I moaned and complained all day behind the steering wheel. The cows didn’t care one iota who stepped out of the truck.
My condition had not improved by the next day and, much to my dismay, Judy had now contracted the same illness during the night. “You’re going to have to get the neighbors to feed for you,” she yelled feebly from the bedroom.
I insisted that I could make it if I took it slow. I tried to convince her that the neighbors didn’t know what all had to be done at each farm and I most certainly didn’t want them to get in my truck and catch whatever fatal disease we must surely have contracted.
“You’re too sick to go out,” she whispered as she stumbled from the bedroom. “I’ll feed for you today.”
“This sickness has made you delirious,” I objected. “You’re as sick as I am, so I’m sure not going to let you go feed by yourself.” It was at that point that we both contemplated a murder/suicide, but neither of us had the energy to load a gun.
Judy knew, as well as I did, that with everything coated with a half-inch of solid ice, the cows had to be fed and pond-ice needed to be chopped to give them access to water, so she offered a compromise. “We’ll both go, but whoever has the lowest fever will open gates and take the net-wrap off the bales.”
Words can’t describe how awful I felt that day, but I agreed that her solution was the most logical thing to do.
Judy stuck the thermometer in her mouth and a couple minutes later pronounced that she had a fever of 101.5. She shook it down, disinfected it, stuck it in my mouth, then shuffled into the kitchen for a bowl of soup before we started the day of feeding.
Upon returning, she pulled the thermometer from my mouth, and announced with a sigh of disappointment, “I guess I need to bundle up. I drew the short stick. Yours is 102.”
Feeling sorry for my wife’s predicament, I went and retrieved my thermal socks and goosedown cap for her to wear. “You’re so good to me,” she commented as she slipped them on.
I hadn’t used the old thermometer-against-the-light-bulb trick since I was in elementary school, but it still works.
