Last weekend I got a cold/flu. My throat was raw and burning. I happened to mention this to my husband Rick several times and asked him if he could get me some throat lozenges. Usually his answer to any ravaging disease is to drink more water. This time however, he told me to take some immune boosters from the cupboard. That was the extent of his concern. The pills didn’t help. My throat still burned and Rick never bought any lozenges.
I am so rarely sick that I have no idea how to act when I am. I spent the morning bustling about before I had to finally lay down for a couple of hours. I called my daughter Ariana to warn her I was sick and that she might not want to bring the kids over this weekend. However, she seemed fine with the fact that her kids could catch some life threatening disease from me so I got up to cook and clean for them.
The next day I slept in a little but I forced myself get up and go to one garage sale. After all, I wasn’t dying. I came home, took a nap, then got up to paint and refinish the bench I bought at the garage sale.
Saturday and Sunday I wanted to sleep in but I got up and cooked, enjoyed my grandkids and finished upholstering my bench. After dinner on Sunday I got tired of playing the martyr and told everyone they had to do the dishes while I finally gave in to being sick.
Monday, ready or not, I got up to take on the new week, which was a good thing because Rick had a scratchy throat. After work, he bought himself a bushel barrel of throat lozenges. Apparently immune pills weren’t enough for him. Tuesday he cancelled all his patients, climbed into bed and told me that not only had I made him sick but he was much worse than I ever thought of being.
He didn’t need to tell me that. He is always much sicker than me. This meant of course, that he would not be utilizing this time away from work to catch up on mowing the lawn, putting up the electric fence or doing any other minor little projects.
He lay prostrate on the bed and acted like he was being stalked by the Grim Reaper. He ordered me to shut the door, be quiet and turn the TV down. He wanted to hear the Reaper’s bone’s creak if he snuck in to the room.
If I needed something important from the bedroom, like clothes to hide my nakedness, I had to tip toe around in the dark. When I banged my shin so hard it almost required stitches, I wasn’t allowed to yelp in pain, and when I came back in to the room to scrub my blood off the carpet he yelled at me for breathing too loud. I hate when Rick is sick.
Then I began to feel guilty. I didn’t even think to ask him if he wanted water, or food. I got mad when he complained he had a headache but wouldn’t take a pill. When he continued to complain, I grabbed a handful of pills and threatened to force them down his throat if he didn’t take one.
I may have the bedside manner of Florence Nightingfail, but I did cure my man.I am one amazing wife!