Friday, March 02, 2007

"I don't feel good"

Crap. When my husband says those words to me, the icy fingers of dread reach out and suffocate my soul. I think that a sick man in the house is right up there with the plagues of Egypt. Locusts and rains of blood may even be preferable.

I love my hubby. Oh yes I do, but if he's sick, injured, or otherwise under the weather, he is just a giant baby about it. Ask me about the time he was cooking something (it must have been sometime in the early dating days, because he hasn't once touched the stove for at least 6 years) and he somehow accidentally touched a hot pan with his fingertip.

There was yowling. There was rushing around frantically. I stood there in disbelief when he grabbed an egg from the fridge, cracked it open, and immersed his wounded finger in the egg whites. At the time, I thought it was a show put on for my benefit, and HEAVEN help me, I thought it was endearing.

As you can surmise, he is a little bit of a hypochrondriac, and also...well, let's face it, he's a drama queen. When you live with someone who screeches "FU_K!!!!" from the kitchen and you run from the back of the house only to have him lamely announce, "Oh- I dropped my spoon." Or if he's using the chainsaw in the backyard..."FU_K!!!!" And you think he's lost a limb, but it's actually a splinter.

Yeah. Nonplussed does not even begin to describe it.

After a few years of living with The Overreactor, I've learned that making a big deal of it only reinforces the behavior, so I just let ignore it and let him take care of it. Plus, I am the crappiest Florence Nightengale ever.

So. He came home last night, and said, "I'm not feeling 100%."

This should have set off alarm bells, since normally, there would be an announcement of imminent death, dramatic coughing, and perhaps some swooning and weak demands that I fetch a poultice or some smelling salts.

However, I went out to a dive bar with a friend last night, where I consumed many WhiskeyandDietCokes, and by the time the relevant announcement was made, I was feeling no pain.

OK, I was wasted.

I patted him on the head in what I hope was a sympathetic manner, said, "Hope you feel better...." and promptly passed out into an alcoholic stupor. He presumably tucked himself in. At least I hope it was him, because I hazily remember that whoever it was took the opportunity to grope me playfully a few times. And he was there in the bed with me when I woke up.

Actually, he woke me up, to say:

"I don't feel good. My head hurts."

"Well, why don't you take some Advil?" I said, more or less reasonably for someone with a hangover who has been woken up at 7AM for no reason.

"I think I need to go to the doctor." He looked at me expectantly.

At this point, my penchant for sarcasm really sucks. What can I say to this?

A. "I'll alert the media."

B. "Do you want me to call your mommy?"

C. "Hug it out bitch!"

D. "Shut up and get me a Bloody Mary."

E. "No, I'll just put a knife under the cut the pain."

I know. I'm a horrible person.

I settled for muttering "Okaaaaaaaaay" and burying my head under the pillow. It seemed like the least potentially damaging option at the time.

The Man went to the doctor, and returned around the time I was up and around and ready for work with a sack of medication. Uh-oh. My heart sank.

"I have strep throat," he said, heavy-eyed. "Do we have any soup?"

I made him soup- it was actually earmarked for my lunch, but I felt guilty for not taking him seriously. I even put Goldfish crackers in it to take advantage of their magical healing properties.

I realized later that he ate all the Goldfish crackers off the top and then put the contaminated soup back in the fridge. Crap. I am married to a five year old.

It wouldn't be so bad if we hadn't JUST dome this a week ago- I had chills and fever, and he had a runny nose, and it was the end of the world.

He's off work for the next three days. I seriously don't know if I can make it. Would it be selfish to ask you all to pray for me?

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