Depending on My Dependents

W. Bruce Cameron

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2008.

The one thing I can say about my children is that I know if I really, really need them for something, they’ll be there for me — unless they’re busy.

A few days ago, I needed them, because I came down with the stomach flu and my insides were actively becoming my outsides. As a man, I am capable of suffering any illness in stoic silence as long as I know that other people are aware of how miserable I am. My kids seemed like a good choice to be those people, as they love me and owe me money.

My children have caller ID, so I was confident that no matter what they were doing, when they saw who it was, they would immediately put me through to voicemail. I left them each a brief message explaining I had caught a bug, but not to worry, I was sure I was going to be all right.

“So what’s this about you dying?” my older daughter asked when she returned my call.

“Did I say dying? I’m sorry, that’s wrong. Dying would be an improvement.”

“I’m looking up your symptoms on the Internet — this could be food-borne, it says.”

“Food borne, as in born of food? I don’t think so. The food has left the building. Now I’m just bringing up pain. Can you come over?”

“Do you want me to take you to the doctor?” she asked.

“No, I’d rather you just stand at the foot of the bed and feel sorry for me.”

She rang off with some lame excuse about being at work, though clearly all she was doing was looking on the Internet for food-borne illnesses. My younger daughter phoned a few minutes later.

“Your sister says she doesn’t care how much pain I’m in, she’s not coming over,” I advised her.

“I know, I just got a text message from her.”

“She has time to send frivolous text messages, but not to come over to assist her father when he is regurgitating his internal organs,” I translated. “I hope you’re calling to say that you want to be the good daughter.”

“No, I want her to be the good daughter. I’m at work.”

“I don’t think you understand. This is, without exaggeration, the most sick any human being has ever been in the history of our species,” I told her.

“‘Without exaggeration,’” she repeated.

“I need my children here to provide me with sympathy and clean out my garage.”

“I am providing sympathy,” she replied. “I was just sending you an e-mail telling you how sorry I am.”

“Oh, honey, you can’t get a good feel for how much I am suffering from just e-mail; doctors have known that for hundreds of years. I need my sympathy to be on-site, immediate and lavish.”

“Dad, you know I’m sorry you’re sick, but what good would it do for me to just go over to your place so you can see me being sorry? Is that what you really want?”

I thought about it: She did have a point. “Yes, that’s what I want.”

She told me she had to go because her boss “needed” her. Hadn’t I just said that I needed her? What kind of company did she work for, that put a boss’s needs over a father’s?

“Wassup, I heard you’re sick,” my son greeted me on the telephone a few minutes later.

“I just brought up everything I’ve ever eaten in my entire life,” I confirmed. “When are you coming over?”

“Pass,” he said.

“Son, I don’t think you understand. When a man gets sick, he needs his loved ones there to provide sympathy and do chores. This is a fundamental male characteristic — you need to come over so you can see how it’s done.”

“I think I can sort of figure it out from a distance. Besides, if I go over there just to offer moral support, I might wind up catching this thing.”

I mulled this over. “Worth the risk,” I decided.

In the end, none of them came over. Sadly, I wound up suffering in silence, my illness completely unknown to anybody.

Unless you count this column.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at http://www.creators.com.

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