I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again.
Fuck the man cold.
Husband: “Honnneeeyyy, I can’t breathe.”
Me: “Use your mouth.”
Him: “I think I have a fever. Do I have a fever? I definitely have a fever.”
Him: “You didn’t even check.”
Me: “Do you know what’s really good for fever? SLEEP.”
Him: “See! I told you I had a fever!” He answers triumphantly.
And with that, I go back to my ever pleasant slumber knowing full well that the day ahead of me was going to be nothing short of sheer hell.
It’s always the same – with most men. The incessant whining, moping and complaining.
Think I’m heartless?
I tried to be compassionate once. I tried to be the “caring” and “doting” wife. Hell, I even entertained his symptoms and typed them diligently into Google for him. And you know what that led to? Two and a half hours of convincing him that he did NOT in fact have Bird Flu, Small Pox, or the Bubonic Plague.
What ever you do, don’t use a symptom checker when you know they have a cold or flu.
Don’t enable them.
A sick man is very similar to someone detoxing from crack. They even share the same symptoms, the shaking, the sweating and the desperate begging for drugs.
When the simple truth is they just have a cold.
A bloody cold.
Thirty-five minutes later:
Him: “Honey, is my snot supposed to be this green?” He asks as he shoves a tissue drenched in gooey neon green mucus in front of my face.
I’m going to throw up.
My distinct disgusted face doesn’t deter him and he continues to dangle the sample my way.
“I looked online and..”
I stop him right there.
I’m not doing this again.
Him: “I’m boiling up and oh Lawdy Lord the pain, I’m in so much pain. Can’t you see? I’m delirious.”
I can’t take it anymore.
Me: “Let’s go get you some meds from the store.”
Him: “Ok,” he whimpers.
We beeline straight to the cold and flu section. He pushes through, like it’s boxing day,in a gesture designed to alert every single early morning shopper that his illness takes top priority. He grabs at not just one or two different types of drugs – oh no, he gets everything.
The NyQuil, the Tylenol, the Advil, the Benylin, the generic brands, the Claritin – I know I told him Claritin was for allergies.
Does it stop there?
The Vicks, the lozenges, tissues, vitamins, and apparently we need another humidifier.
When we get home, he makes his way to bed – leaving me with all the bags and our brand spanking new humidifier.
Obviously on a day like today, it would only make sense that I would trip all over the dogs in the most animated of fashions and face plant.
In the most insincere tone he asks, ” are you ok?”
“Yeah,” I shout back, trying desperately to collect all the drugs before the dogs OD on them.
On my way upstairs, I contemplate the legal and moral ramifications of giving him 18 pills at once. I know he shouldn’t exceed 6 pills a day, but…
I toss the box of NyQuil in his general direction, I figure the sooner he’s asleep the better.
“Can you open the pills for me?” He asks as he helplessly tries to rip the foil open.
“And after, can you rub Vicks on me?” He lifts up shirt expectantly waiting to get his menthol rub down.
“You missed a spot,” he complains obnoxiously pointing at the the square centimetre of skin not lathered and marinading in the pungent rub.
“After, can you tuck me in?” His expression is priceless and adorable. I can feel myself caving.
I gently tuck him in and kiss his forehead.
I can taste the freedom. Soon he will asleep and ahhhhh.
“I have a fever, I’m boiling up in here,” he wines.
I reach for his forehead to check.
“Can you scratch my head?”
“Can you tell me a story?”
Don’t lose it Shareen, you’re almost there.
I pretend I don’t hear him.
“Tell me a STORY!!”
I continue to pretend.
“And can I get a massage?”
Is he serious? Like is he being serious right now? It’s just a cold.
I commit to the conscious decision that I’m not going to smother him with his pillow irregardless of how tempting it is.
“Are you ignoring me? Why are you ignoring me? Why don’t you love me anymore? You signed a contract!’
Damnit – he’s right. Through sickness and in health. I should have read the fine print.
Just as I’m about to make up a story about a wife who kills her husband in his sleep, he passes out.
And the day could not be any sweeter.
5:35 am the next morning.
I wake up feeling like proverbial ass.
I reach for the box of tissues – empty.
I contemplate blowing my nose on his shirt. Nah, I get up and get a roll of toilet paper.
And then I look at him, sleeping peacefully.
I start to poke him.
“Hmmm?” He asks sleepily.
“I think I have a fever.”
Sweet Dreams World.