I'm sick

We’ve all heard the jokes about men being sick. They become pathetic, whiney babies.  Women get sick, take the kids to school, clean the house, go to work, pick up the dry cleaning, take the kids to practice, make dinner, help the kids with homework, load of laundry, pack lunches for tomorrow and then collapse into bed with a Sudafed cocktail and a heating pad.

Things, however, are a bit different at my house. Mama's the one to become the pathetic, whiney baby.   I’m fine with a simple cold, runny nose, bit of a cough.  I can even cope with a sore throat. Until I can’t.  Until swallowing requires forethought and planning.  I have TMJ (doesn’t everybody?) and when my sinus’ ache, my teeth ache, then my jaw, then my neck.  I can’t concentrate beyond pain.  I have a low pain tolerance.  I got an epidural at 2 cm with my first baby, for goodness sake. 

First, I get so tired, it’s hard to fall asleep with congestion. Hubby drives the girls to school.  I lean on friends to pick up the girls from school.  Then dinner falls to the wayside.  Everyone know you feel worse in the evening.  Hubs picks up dinner. 

I stay in bed.  I’m pitiful.  The end is near.  I think this may actually be serious.  It might be pneumonia.  Once it actually was.  Never felt so vindicated in my life!

I cry when I’m sick. I shuffle around the house in despair a trail of crumpled tissues in my wake.  I call my Mom.  I’m 50 and I still call my Mom when I’m sick.  Just to let her know I’m sick.  She tries to be sympathetic, bless her.  My girls avoid me since the great norovirus outbreak of 2015.  I lie in bed and clutch my pillow waiting to slip away. 

My husband, God bless him, takes care of me.  My Mom calls him The Saint.  And he is. He’s sympathetic.  He’s supportive.  He’s kind. He’s gentle.  He keeps that world at bay and strokes my hair.  The takes the girls to school, goes to work, picks up dinner, brings me home my favorite chicken noodle soup from a nearby deli.  The Saint.

The price I pay, however, is that time stands still while I am sick.  My house becomes like Princess Aurora’s castle in Sleeping Beauty after Maleficent casts her sleeping spell (sounds delightful, doesn’t it?).  When I arise from my sick bed to reclaim my life, my house is exactly as I left it.  Trash piled up, litter boxes unscooped, beds askew, dishwasher packed but unwashed and piles of laundry. Oy!