Elder got it last night. I am now the last man standing in a world of puke.
Here's the deal: I hate being around sick people. I give blood as a cheap and easy way to fulfill the command to give ease and comfort to the sick. I lay on a padded cot for a few minutes with a needle in my arm whilst I read a book, then get a cookie and orange juice for my trouble. It allows me to help the sick without ever actually having to be near any of them. It's perfect.
But now disease is in my very house. I want to hose the three of them down with Lysol and leave for a few days. I have to give them sympathy and compassion. I have to hold younger whilst she cries in my face, right after she has thrown up and her breath is reeking. I don't recall my old man doing any of this for us. Oh no, he was a Dad in the Golden Age of Manhood, when a man's place was on the golf course, or bowling alley, or the ol' fishin' hole when he wasn't working. I don't remember him cleaning up vomit. I remember well the compassion he gave me after one of my bike crashes and he was digging gravel out of my knee: "Hold still, G-D it!" he said. "You're getting blood on me!" That's the kind of man I was raised to be, not a nurse.
When I get sick, do they repay the favour? heck no. Then again, I don't want them to. When I'm sick, my attitude is more along the lines of "Leave me alone so I can die in peace."
Now excuse me, I hear someone calling.