My son has come down with a nasty cold, possibly even the flu, but it's made much worse because his postnasal drip is upsetting his stomach and making him nauseous to the point of vomiting. Which is 100% my genetic contribution. Which means not only am I responsible for causing it, but also that I know exactly how miserable it is, because I go through the same thing every time I get a bad cold. His feeling horrible makes me feel even more horrible.
There's a special circle of parental hell for those of us who passed on any kind of genetic weakness. In my (and my son's) case, it's a sensitive stomach. It means that he gets carsick on a regular basis, that he suffers from sympathetic vomiting, and that any degree of stuffiness results in an upset stomach and - yet again - vomiting. Basically, every time my kid throws up, I feel guilty and responsible.
I suppose the advantages are that a) I take his complaints very seriously, and b) I know what works for me, so I know some good solutions to try, from Alka Seltzer Cold to frozen ginger ale to keeping a tiny bit of food in my/his stomach to (as my mom always said) "blow, don't snuff!!". But it doesn't make me feel any less guilty.
What I remember most about being sick as a kid includes three things: 1) lying on the couch watching terrible daytime TV, including The Price Is Right and Days of Our Lives, 2) scraping bits of frozen ginger ale out of my dad's hammered silver baby cup, and 3) my dad telling me, "I wish I was sick instead of you." I never really understood #3 until I had kids of my own, but now I do. I would give anything to be able to take my kids' sickness away, even to the point of being sick myself. My heart absolutely breaks watching my children be miserable, and I would take on that sickness for them in a heartbeat. But I can't do that. The best I can do is to bring them frozen ginger ale and toast, to rub their backs, to rub their foreheads with cool washcloths, and to dose them with ibuprofen or cough & cold medicine or whatever they can tolerate. And then I can just sit with them and sympathize.
But if my memory of my own childhood is correct, having a sympathetic adult sit with you is incredibly comforting. So I sit with my son, re-filling his ice water, wiping his forehead with a cool, damp washcloth, rubbing his back or his forehead, reading him stories or playing him music, feeling helpless but doing whatever I can, and mostly, just being there. Because him knowing that I'm there, trying to help, caring, loving him, makes a difference.
It may not make his body better, but it will touch his heart and his soul, and that is what moms do.
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