Healing the half-sick
At Himself’s first low mutterings of “I have a tickle in my throat”, and “I think I’m having one of my weak spells”, my heart sinks, as this can only mean the onset of one of his protracted and deeply irritating Man Flus. One would think it’d be safe to assume that the height of summer would be exempt from the rage-inducing ordeal that is being in proximity to a Man Flu. But no. I believe the surprise element is Himself ’s entire game plan: to extract sympathy through my being distracted and caught off-guard.
I can proudly report that it’s a game plan to which I am impervious. At the first signs of him becoming more hysterical than an ailing Victorian lady, wailing “Fetch me my smelling salts”, I harden my heart against him, and prepare for a good four to six days of simmering resentment and passiveaggressive ministerings. It’s a given that I’ll be shouldering the burden of the household for the duration.
The urge to flee the house sets in at the first signs of those weak, sickly coughs and martyr-ish sighs. Of course, in order to flee the house, I would first have to wade through the sea of discarded tissues that are now strewn everywhere. Can he not locate the bin? Can he not understand how gross someone else’s used tissues are? Evidently not. What irks me even more than the sea of tissues is the way that he neatly folds each one into a perfect little square; could he not just put them in the bin?
“You’re not that fucking sick,” I scream-think, as the tea and toast I’ve brought him is rejected, and an order for a sausage, bacon and egg sandwich with brown sauce is put in. If he actually does make it downstairs to retrieve supplies, instantly there is hot-whiskey paraphernalia everywhere. I’m all for low-level daytime drunkenness — but really only when I’m doing it.
Living with a mildly sick man is just the pits. Is there anything worse than having to share a bed with a sick person? Personally, I think he should volunteer to vacate the bed during this time.
Oddly, Himself seems to think this is the perfect time to try to initiate coitus. How does he imagine coming on to me while under a mucusy film of Man Flu is going to work? He is clearly feeling energised from all his bed rest, and vaguely delusional from the hot whiskeys; it’s the only explanation for his thinking that I want that fleshy bag of infection sweating all over me while breathing nasally throughout. Apologies for that graphic mental image; I’m possibly becoming delirious myself.
There comes a point — I think of it as Peak Man Flu — when Himself starts acting like he’s about to pass away, and some tiny part of me wishes he would; particularly earlier, when he complained that this healing spicy duck and noodle soup that I brought him was too hot.
I’ll now be taking to the bed for my round of Fem Flu. Goodbye, world.