It is my turn to be sick, only I really am...and Himself is in meltdown
Published 24/03/2016 | 00:00
I AM writing this from my sick bed. Oh Go On have a good laugh!
I know what you're thinking-'serves her right for slagging off her poor husband when he was ill.' I suppose there's no point in me trying to explain that all he had was a head cold! Whereas I have been confined to bed for six days suffering the full rigours of The Lurgy.
I started off just feeling achey. I was slow to mention it because I knew sympathy would not be forthcoming. After I dished up dinner I announced I was going to bed as I felt sick. Himself rolled his eyes and winked at the children, 'your mother is a terrible patient.'
'You're being really mean to me,' I whinged self pityingly. 'Well you weren't exactly full of sympathy yourself when I was sick,' he huffed.
'You had a bloody head cold! I am genuinely, seriously ill here!' He rolled his eyes again. Five minutes later I was throwing up with gusto. 'I told you I was sick,' I told him in between bouts.
By Wednesday a visit to the doctor confirmed gastric flu and an ear infection. The fact that I lost my voice probably saved my marriage as I didn't have the energy to communicate via text or note.
Instead I felt suitably justified in taking to the bed and leaving all hell break loose.
'Where's my sports kit?'
'I don't know, wherever you left it!'
'Mum always looks after it!'
'Well your mother is sick,' replied Himself through gritted teeth.
'Daaaaaaad, where's my lunch box??'
'On the kitchen counter.'
'Aaaaagh! there's carrots in my lunch box. I hate carrots. Mum gives me grapes.'
'I need five euro for swimming.'
'Don't forget I have gymnastics this evening.'
It ended in Himself losing the plot, 'just get out the bloody door!'
I slept through most of it and only recall the occasional meltdown through a drug induced fog. By the weekend he was getting into his stride. He'd hung washing on the line, gone to the supermarket and given them Rocky Road for their dinner! Must've thought marshmallows were one of their five a day!
'So, eh, when do you think you'll be better then?' he inquired on Sunday night as he crawled into bed. 'Dunno. See what the doctor says tomorrow. She might put me on another week's bedrest, just to be on the safe side.'
He looked horrified. I started to feel sorry for him, after all he had done a good job holding the fort. 'Relax. I'd say normal service will resume this week.'
He heaved a sigh of relief. 'Great. Could you do me a favour? Could you make steak and chips for dinner tomorrow night? Even your cooking is better than mine!'
I may feel a relapse coming on.