Yer Man is sick.
SOUND THE MANFLU KLAXON!
It’s not actually flu, it’s a stomach bug, but the klaxon still applies.
There is nothing, no-thing, guaranteed to turn me into Bitch Wife faster than my husband being sick. I just can’t be doing with it.
It’s not so much the illness itself – that he can’t help. No, it’s the pitiful mooning around, the calf eyes, the heavy sighs, the dragging himself around the place. Drives. Me. Insane.
To be fair, he’s not often sick. He’s a primary school teacher so over the years he’s picked up all sorts and has built up an immune system that can pretty much be seen from space.
And usually when he’s sick, he really IS sick. Like the time he picked up a bacterial infection so mysterious that the doctor had to look it up in a buke to diagnose him and then backed away slowly while writing the prescription. So that time I had more sympathy.
But then sometimes there are days where he’s a bit off form, but acts like he’s been disemboweled with a rusty spoon. Like yesterday.
It was a tummy bug, he skipped dinner and went to bed early – that should have been the end of it. But no, I had to put up with the calf eyes and the pitiful glances and the slow heavy tread as he forced himself up to bed.
He miserably wished me goodnight while I inwardly fantasised about beating him about the face with a blunt instrument and burying him under the decking.
What is wrong with me?
Seriously. He’s a great husband. A fabulous Dad. Always full of sympathy for me if I’m ill.
Yet every time he spikes a fever I’m inwardly bellowing ‘Pull yourself together, man’ while mentally planning his demise. Bitch Wife doesn’t even come close.
I reluctantly remembered that whole ‘in sickness and in health’ in the marriage vows yesterday evening, so I decided I better at least feign interest in his
imminent death stomach bug. I doled out some Imodium and paracetamol with a fake smile and even took his temperature, while pressing a glass of water into his shaking hands.
“Thanks for looking after me,” he rasped, half dead in the bed. I swear, I rolled my eyes so hard I almost made myself blind.
Thankfully he can’t see into my black heart, so he thinks he has a great wife, but he’ll probably cotton on soon when he catches sight of me in a mirror and realises there’s no reflection looking back.
There might be hope for me yet though – I do feel guilty for feeling like this. Not guilty enough to actually DO anything about it? But guilty none the less.
It’s a start, right?
Anyway, I have to go now, Yer Man has put in an order for Tuc crackers and Lucozade to ‘rebalance my electrolytes’ so I have to get to the shops.
I also have to buy a shovel. No reason.