Chicken Pox & Get Well Cards

“What’s going on?” Jeremy had just come into the kitchen for breakfast when he found his mom dabbing pink lotion on his sister’s arms with a cotton ball.

“Oh, Mommy, it itches!” Emily whined. Her arms and face were covered in red spots.

“What’s wrong with Emily? She get bug bites or something?” he asked, searching the fridge for some orange juice.

“Chicken pox, I’m afraid,” said his mom.

“Chicken pox! Doesn’t that spread to other people?” Jeremy looked alarmed as he slammed the fridge door shut.

“Yes. It is very contagious. It spreads through contact with someone who has it,” explained Mom.

“Oh no! I was sitting next to Emily when we watched a movie last night!”

“I hate to tell you this, but you’ll probably get it.”

“But I don’t want to miss my soccer game next week. Emily, keep away from me with your nasty chicken pox.”

“Jeremy! That’s not very nice,” said Mom. “Have a little compassion.”

“Compassion? What’s that mean?”

“It means have some sympathy. Think about how she must feel!”

“I am thinking about it—and how I don’t want to be itchy all over like she is.” Then he darted out of the room.

For the next several days, Jeremy tried to keep away from Emily. He would not sit in her favorite chair in the living room. He wouldn’t use the hand towel in the bathroom because he was sure her germs were on it. Before coming out of his bedroom, he would always peek out his door first to make sure Emily wasn’t in the hallway. One afternoon, just as he sneaked past Emily’s room, her door opened.

“Ahh! Stay away! Ahh!” Jeremy yelled as he ran around the hall in circles before diving into the hall closet and slamming the door behind him.

“Crazy Jeremy,” Emily said and walked past the closet.

A while later, Mom walked down the hall toward Emily’s room. As she passed by the hall closet, she heard a knocking sound. Thump! Thump! Thump!

Mom opened the closet door. “Jeremy! What are you doing?”

“Thanks, Mom!” Jeremy exclaimed as he sprang from the closet and sped down the stairs.

Mom shook her head. “Crazy Jeremy,” she said as she walked on down the hall.

The day before his soccer game, Jeremy sat outside on the front steps eating a peanut butter sandwich. “I don’t think I’m going to get sick after all,” he said to himself. He started to take another bite of his sandwich then suddenly decided he was full. Jeremy stood up and went back into the kitchen.

“Done already?” Mom asked, getting up from her chair.

“Uh-huh,” said Jeremy. He handed her the plate with his half-eaten sandwich then plunked down at the table.

Mom reached over and placed her hand on his forehead. “Oh, dear. You feel warm.”

“Oh, no, Mom! I’m not sick. Really.”

But it was no use. Soon Jeremy was lying in bed. His mom read the number on the thermometer. “Just as I thought,” she said. “You’ve got a fever. I’m afraid you’re coming down with the chicken pox.”

Sure enough, when Jeremy woke up the next morning, his back and chest were itching, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw red spots on his face and arms. He wandered into the kitchen feeling miserable. “Mo-o-o-om.”

Mom stood at the counter sipping her coffee. “Awwww, Sweetie!” She set her coffee cup down and reached for the bottle of pink lotion and bag of cotton balls.

Emily was sitting at her usual place at the table. Her spots were healing, and her appetite was back to normal. “Sorry you got the chicken pox, Jeremy,” she said, in between bites of oatmeal.

“Yeah, just in time for my soccer game,” he complained. “Thanks a lot, Emily.”

Emily frowned. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry about the game, Jeremy,” Mom said. She dotted his face with the lotion. “But it isn’t Emily’s fault. She didn’t ask to get chicken pox.”

Later that day, Jeremy lay in bed feeling sorry for himself. He tossed his comic book aside when there was a knock on his door. “Come in,” he said.

The door opened slowly, and Jeremy sat up when Emily appeared. She was carrying a tray with a piece of cake and glass of milk on it. “I thought this might help you feel better,” she said setting the tray on his nightstand. She picked up a card from the tray. “I—I made you this,” she said and handed it to her brother.

As he took the card, Jeremy noticed a soccer ball drawn on the front. He opened it and read: Get well soon. Love, Emily.

Jeremy managed a smile. “This is a super card, Emily. How come you’re being so nice? I wasn’t very nice when you were sick.”

Emily shrugged. “That’s okay. I just—.” She sat on the edge of his bed. “Well, I know how yucky you feel. So, I wanted to show a little com—compa—what was the word Mom said?”

“Compassion,” said Jeremy with a grin.

“Yeah, that!” Emily stood up. “So, want to play a game so you don’t think about itching?”

“Sure, that sounds great! And Emily,” he said, “thanks!”

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