everyone, stop what you’re doing. we have a man down. i repeat, we have. a man. down.
it appears that the tallest and strongest one in our house (he can open any jar i give him–yes, he’s THAT strong) has come down with the dreaded cold. i’m afraid it’s serious. all forward motion has come to a screeching halt. all plans have changed. all schedules cancelled. all clocks–stopped.
i was awakened in the night by moaning and coughing and blowing (get your mind out of that gutter this instant!) followed by more moaning.
*let me just preface this by reminding all of you that i had this same cold last weekend and was shown no sympathy whatsoever. in fact i remember a certain ‘jar opener’ handing me some advil and some sage advice like “hang in there–you’ll be ok–it’s just a cold.”
(i love it when karma’s wicked finger isn’t pointing at me)
it was 2:30am. i wanted to punch him in the face. i really did. it’s bad enough when the little ones wake me up–i mean don’t get me wrong, i want to punch them in the face too–but now i got this big, grown up man/child poking me in the arm and moaning, “shaun. a. help. me. uuhhhh.”
i threw back the covers, got up, and turned on the bedside lamp. “what’s wrong?” i asked, trying not to sound too much like a bitch. (i’m sure you can appreciate how hard that was for me)
“i’m sick. i feel terrible. you’ve got to do something. i’ve never felt this bad before.”
yeah, ok. first off, we went through this about a year ago. remember That? jar opener man? back THEN you felt terrible, you never felt so bad, yada yada. so let’s get our facts straight.
i didn’t say anything like that though. i oohed and ahhed and fetched pills, liquids, suppositories, ointments…you name it. i was like a modern day florence fucking nightingale.
*sidenote: do you think the real florence nightingale was resentful? i mean, don’t you think she was sick and tired of helping nurse poor people back to health? i bet she secretly hated them. oh, and on wikipedia, they reveal that she was quite popular–if you know what i mean.
one of the pills i gave him was of the sleeping kind. i didn’t do it for him–i did it for me. i had to get some sleep. i knew what the day held in store for me and it wasn’t pretty–and it required that i be well rested. so, true to the pill’s effects, resident jar opener fell asleep after an hour of moaning and saying things like, “have you EVER felt this bad? do you think anyone has ever felt as bad as i do?”
gee honey, i doubt it. you are probably the only person who has ever lived who’s felt this bad.
around 7, he awoke. and i knew this because the moaning picked up where it left off a few hours before.
i dialed my doctor to see if tommy could come in as a new patient. it wasn’t happening. why didn’t i call HIS doctor you ask? because jar openers don’t need doctors. ok? (me, rolling my eyes) so we did what we had to do. doc in a box.
he was too sick and too weak to drive (again, me rolling my eyes) so i rearranged my schedule and drove him to the doctor. we were called back to the room and when the doctor came in, she seemed a little puzzled as to why a grown man had his wife in the room with him. she was probably even MORE puzzled as to why I did all the talking. jar opener lay on the table (moaning) while i explained his symptons to her. she was busy jotting notes and looking from me to him and then back to me. when she went to examine him she spoke very loudly and very slowly. why was she talking to him as if he were a 5 year old?
ooohhhhh. she thinks he’s my very “special” husband. i couldn’t help but laugh. she thinks i’m married to a retarded person! that would explain why a grown man needs his wife in the room talking for him. i totally got it then. and so, i just played along.
she explained TO ME what was going on with him. she gave instructions TO ME about the medication, yada yada. after awhile, she didn’t address him at all. she spoke to me as if we were the only 2 people in the room. i don’t even think she looked at him again.
and it was fucking hilarious.
when we left, jar opener decided to drive. he was nauseated and thought that driving would make him feel better. we pulled up to the pharmacy window and he looked at the stack of papers in his lap and asked, “what do i do now?”
seriously, i think he might actually BE special.
“um, press that button right there and tell the nice lady you need to drop off your presciption.”
he turned to me and said, “i know why you’re making fun of me and it’s not funny.”
“oh trust me–it’s funny,” i said before snorting a laugh.
so he pressed the button…ok, this could take all day. basically, he couldn’t do it. he couldn’t drop off a prescription without my involvement. i had to lean over him and talk into the speaker. i had to show him which slip of paper to put in the doo-hickey so that it could be sucked up and delivered inside the store. yes, i had to do it all. and frankly, i wonder what the hell would happen to him (and the children!) if i was to die–or run away from home.
so, really, everyone better hope i outlive him or something really bad is bound to happen. and that, my friends, ain’t so funny.
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