my best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who's going with the girl who saw him pass out...
My husband's been sick for three weeks. I'll pause to allow for the requisite sympathetic reactions this news typically provokes. The ooohing. The awwwing. The hushed - because of his constant headache - whispers that he get better soon. Hell, I hope he gets better soon, but as it is, it's been three weeks.
I feel like yelling that. Hold on.
THREE WEEKS!!! MY HUSBAND'S BEEN SICK FOR THREE WEEKS!!! TWENTY ONE DAYS!!! ALMOST AN ENTIRE MONTH!!!
Three weeks ago, he returned from a long weekend away with the boys. As soon as he entered the house, I knew something was wrong because he bypassed my loving arms, which were open to engulf him in an embrace meant to say "Hello! Welcome home! I'm glad you returned to me! As you can see, despite my irrational fears, I didn't die nor was I killed while you were gone for four days and three nights, and though I'm holding the tiniest nugget of a grudge regarding the complete ramshackle mess you left the house in for me to clean while you were away, I love you. Kiss me. Please. Before I mention all the laundry you stuck me with, too, thanks."
Odd, I know. Hell, you probably want to make out with me right now knowing that's how I greet loved ones when they enter my home. Understandable. Truth be told, I secretly want to make out with many of you, too. I also usually have fresh baked cookies somewhere in the house at all times ("...it's been in my pocket; they're real warm and soft."), so think about that, too, when you're imagining us fondly. I realize it's an uncomfortable feeling, but just relax. It's OK.
Anyway, my dear husband chose not to make out with me that night. Instead, he put his hand in front of my face and scurried upstairs, almost as if he were Will Smith rushing to his basement laboratory to hide from The Infected (duh duh duh DUH!!) except the irony here is he's infected one. Thankfully not with something that transformed him into a big-headed CGI mutant starring in one of the worst movies ever that I can't NOT watch when it's on FX, which is all the damn time, though, truth be told, it felt a little touch and go there for several days.
As if the sniffling, coughing, aching head, fever, you're making it hard for ME to sleep symptoms weren't enough to make it clear my husband was sick, his lack of work ethic really drove the point home. For as long as I've known him, my husband has bravely gone forth to sell power tools (or whatever else his previous jobs have required) even if he was in a full body cast or had accidentally removed a limb in a tragic caulking accident. He's the Black Knight of our family. No mere flesh wound is going to keep my man away from an honest day's work! 'Tis noble, really, for you might know me as a wee bit of a whiner. I hope you know me as such because when I went into the blog and searched 'sick' to provide you a few hilarious links to my past feverish foibles, far too many entries popped up, and while I'm sure not all of them were directly about my maladies, it was enough to be mildly embarrassing. Suffice to say, I can be whiny.
The first week, I watched my husband return home at various points in the day and huddle on the couch enshrouded in his coat, a hat, and a blanket around his shaking shoulders. "Where are you off to today?" I'd ask. "To any early grave," he'd reply. When he wasn't trying to dislodge his lungs through a series of volcanic coughs, I often confused him for someone who'd stopped to rest on the couch while trekking across the barren lands in search of hope in a post-apocalyptic world, and week two was looming ahead of us. After days of no relief and entirely too much togetherness that was beginning to border on a possible manslaughter conviction, I suggested he visit the doctor. That's really what helped convince me the man's sick. If there's one thing he hates more than missing work, it's going to the doctor and paying a pesky co-pay, but I returned one afternoon to find a note stuck to the counter with the words Walk-in Clinic scrawled on it, the final 'c' ending in a tiny ink trail to the bottom corner of the note, as if the effort of holding a pen was too much for the man.
By now you're probably asking "Hey, is there a point to this endless tale of misery? Because I gotta be honest, while I'm sorry your husband's sick, I'm a little sick, too. Yeah. I'm a little damn sick of reading all this! Can we speed things up maybe?"
Yes there's a point to all this! Just chill out, Dr. Feelgood! Sheesh!
When my husband finally returned home from the medical clinic, he burst feebly through the door, sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to him as a signal I should join him. "It must be bad news," I thought.
"It's bad news," he mumbled.
("I'm a genius!" I thought)
"Just tell me," I said. "I can take it."
"I've got pneumonia," he sighed, collapsing weakly into the cushions. "Can you believe that bad news?"
I appropriately expressed my concern. Fetched a blanket, offered to take his prescriptions to the pharmacy to be filled, stirred a pot of homemade chicken soup. All the good wifely things I'll admit I'd given up on around the 8th day. I rubbed his feet as we sat quietly together and processed his diagnosis. In sickness and in health? Oh, I'm with you, my love!
"There is some good news, though!" he said, and though I thought he might be delirious with fever, for when would there ever be good news again, I took a bite of one of those fresh baked cookies I keep around the house and asked what it could possibly be.
"I've lost 10 pounds in five days!" he cheered.
And then I killed him.
OK, not really. But let's just say that after he gave me that little glimmer of sunshine, I gave him a heaping helping of my medicine. With my mighty fists.
OK, also not really.
But the FDA really should get on approving the healthy dose of eye-rolling I gave him as my sympathy flew out the window. Perhaps in a convenient time-release capsule. Or a patch that could be worn on the body and releases a steady dose of common sense. My husband could wear his over his mouth.
To prevent the spread of germs, of course.