KEY POINTS:
I shouldn't be writing this. I shouldn't be working at all. I have a bit of a sniffle. I shall ring my editor and tell him I am taking to my sickbed. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha bloody ha. Excuse me for indulging in a bit of wishful thinking there. It is true that I am a wee bit poorly, but there's fat chance I will be daintily reclining with a Vicks-infused hanky. There are the kids, literally snotty-nosed, to look after. And being a freelancer means no copy filed, no money made.
But this malaise has got me thinking about the frequency of sickies for the gainfully employed. I wonder whether, in this era of wellness and risk-management and OSH and inhouse yoga, it has become much more acceptable to bunk off work when one has the smallest upper respiratory tract infection: what used to be called "flu" till we realised that influenza is actually a real disease. There's a handy "because you're worth it" and "my little girl's looking after herself" justification about ringing in sick these days. Apparently, you owe it to yourself. If you need any more excuses you can tell yourself it would be inconsiderate to pass on your germs to your workmates.
I come from a different perspective. I believe in soldiering on, but not because I am a selfless martyr who doesn't want to let my employer down. Nor because I am hard-working; on the contrary. When I worked at a weekly business publication I was a glum, fat singleton who lived in a damp flat, ate two-minute noodles and spent all my money getting trolleyed with my colleagues. In short, I didn't have much of a life outside work. I also used to frequently suffer from terrifying hangovers. Staying home the next morning was not an option - especially when your chums at the next desk knew what you had been up to and felt pretty ropey themselves. If you can transcend a metaphysical hangover to put a financial paper to bed it does make you staunch about working through bog-standard illnesses. I once got carted off from work to hospital with pneumonia. Another time, when working in radio, I passed out after crawling into work at 4am and spent a week in hospital with campylobacter poisoning. I just thought I had drunk too many vodka shooters.
Another reason I trucked on at work when crook was because I was paranoid about losing my job. Job-hunting in the depths of the early 1990s recession made me desperately grateful to anyone who would give me a gig. I suspect the Generation Y graduates who can insouciantly pick and choose which position to deign to accept might be more relaxed about risking the occasional mental health day. The current thinking about being sick - and I am talking solely about sniffles and low-level viral infections - is that it is a mishap that happens passively to you and you have no control over it.
I know this to be a racket. For a start, I got sick in my land of the never-ending nightclub days because I went browsing and sluicing too much and didn't look after myself. I brought it on myself. But even if you do get sick, it is not a foregone conclusion that you simply take to your bed. That's what pseudoephedrine is for. You didn't see Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton saying they had a spot of laryngitis while on the primary trail and disappearing under the duvet, even if they might have liked to.
I'd guess the self-employed, like my wonderful Greenacres cleaners who turn up come hell or high water, take fewer sick days. It is hard to prove or disprove this theory as Statistics New Zealand, and seemingly other government departments, keeps no data on sick leave. Neither does Business New Zealand. I suppose I could have rung around and got some anecdotal evidence, but I am feeling too sick; sorry Mr Editor.
deborah@coneandco.com
