Dear Florence Nightingale

A little over three years ago, my husband and I got 

married. We had a beautiful day, church wedding, all the trimmings, said our bit, signed the register and became man and wife.

But let’s backtrack just slightly. We ‘said our bit’ - apologies for this rather thrifty approach to the marriage vows. The words that in one short moment bind us together for life possibly deserve a little more gravitas.

Now ‘these them vows’ are incredibly important of course, and although some may sound somewhat antiquated (the whole ‘to love, honour and obey’ thing has feminists the world over with their knickers in a right twist doesn’t it?!) they are as relevant today as they were way back when God was a lad. None more I feel than that old chestnut, ‘in sickness and in health’.

Over the past week I have had these vows ringing around in my head as I have marched on (on automatic pilot with lots of under-eye concealer) while the Hitchings household crumbled slowly around me in a sea of sickness.

My little Erin (bless her) caught a bad cold from her first week at nursery which, combined with teething, resulted in a variety of outcomes. There’s what I will always refer to as ‘the night of 45 minutes sleep’, followed by a subsequent five days of coughing, spluttering, sniveling, refusing to eat and general slumber. Like all first mums with the first ever illness, this was worrying, stressful, tiring and at times, rather trying.

But it’s what you do isn’t it? It’s what you sign on for when becoming a mum.

And talking about signing on. Clearly when I signed on that dotted line in that church on that cold Winter’s day, I had not read the small print.

I had always assumed the ‘in sickness and in health’ thing wouldn’t really kick in till we’re old and grey (if my hairdresser raises one eyebrow at this point, she knows where her next tip is going!). I think I thought this refers to that time in your life when you sit anxiously at a hospital bedside when something terrible has happened.

I guess I never thought about the dreaded flu.

Along with most women I’m sure, when my husband started with a snivel and a ‘really sore throat’ last week, I showed a relative amount of sympathy and support, but inside was assuming that this was, in the worst case, Man Flu.

We all know what a terrible affliction the Man Flu is. There is almost no cure, and it is destined to return frequently.

But I have to say in this particular case, old hubbykins wasn’t displaying symptoms consistent with a Man Flu diagnosis. It became more apparent the slower his walk got, the more he ached, and the less he spoke, that this really was the real thing. He’d got real, actual, full blown flu.

For me, the deciding factor, and what I believe will always be the benchmark for future illness, is his lack of interest in his computer.

In all our five and a half years together, I have never once known Mark to go longer than a couple of hours without the company of his good pal, the Macbook. But this week I could almost have dusted off the lid, it was so lonely sat on its own in our spare room.

So on realising that I had an infirmary on my hands, there was nothing else I could do but soldier on, attempt to find small moments in the day to sit and stare mindlessly into the ether, and the obvious solution – call my mum!

Now I’m not one to admit defeat. In fact I will rarely ask for help, I tend to wait till someone sees me keel over and then graciously accept it.

I hadn’t quite hit the floor this week when my mum offered to come over and help me out for the afternoon. I didn’t want to mess up her plans, but at the same time I really did want her to come over just so I could sit. Even if it was just for a couple of hours.

It’s amazing what those couple of hours did for me. It was a bit like being a few miles from the end of a marathon and you don’t think you can finish, when someone gives you a bottle of Lucozade and a pat on the bottom and says “come on, you can do it, it’s not far now!” (not something I am totally familiar with, but I’m just imagining what running a marathon must feel like – I’m shattered just thinking about it.)

I found my second wind (all those sniggering at reference to wind, please continue as I did the same!)

Once the second wind had kicked in, I was away – I could see the finishing line and I was ready for any soup making, Lemsip stirring, brow mopping and tissue collection that was required (and those tissues seem to show up everywhere! I found one down the back of the radiator!).

I’m very pleased to report - much like a surgeon standing at a podium outside the hospital where he’s just successfully separated Siamese twins – that the Hitchings household is out of the woods. There are rooms in the world again that don’t smell like Olbas oil, and there are babies that eat their porridge and husbands that can sit upright and have in fact opened the lid on their Macbook.

It was touch and go there for a while, but I feel that my stint as Florence Nightingale has been successfully completed.

The whole week just made me realise that although you make vows literally when you get married, you make them metaphorically when you become a mum. Mums essentially vow to be there regardless of anything else, whenever, wherever and for however long – but we never actually say this, or write it down.

So even when you’re nearly 30 years into motherhood like my mum (she was obviously very very young when she had me, I mean practically a child herself, she is definitely not over 50) your metaphorical vows still kick in.

It might not be the everyday making sure your children are fed and watered, making sure they’re dressed properly and learning all the time, but it is for those moments when they say (either literally or you just know) “I need you mum!” and without question, you’re there.

Of course dads are the same. My dad is known in our family as the fourth emergency service, and never fails to do anything he can for his girls (whatever generation they’re in, and even the furry ones). But for the purposes of this week, and this blog, I praise mums.

For all of you who are currently holding your eyes open with matchsticks cause you haven’t slept in five months, or those who are battling with a teenager who hates everyone but the bare chested, oil covered pop star on her wall, and those mums and grandmas who are helping their little girls become mums themselves, I salute you. Every one of you.

Here’s to the next thirty years, and being there regardless.