Paul is sick today. This is news because I can count the number of times he’s been sick since we’ve been married on one hand. I chalk it up to growing up in an inordinately large family. His immune system must have been exposed to it all during those formative years because he hardly ever gets even so much as a cold.
So when he does, it’s hard to watch.
The first time he fell ill, we were newlyweds. He called me at work to tell me he was having severe pains. He was barely able to drive himself home, he said, and was contemplating stopping off at the emergency room on the way. Well, I rushed right home immediately. I told my boss there was a family emergency and left my cubicle straight away.
When I arrived home I find my love in the fetal position on the bed moaning. He was… running a slight temperature.
“Let’s hold off on the ER just yet and see what some Tylenol and chicken soup can do.” He agreed.
I had to spoon feed the darling.
Sure enough, after a good long nap, he was able to sit up, watch TV and send me out for ginger ale. We both went back to work the next day.
Since then, he’s been far less dramatic, but as it is with most husbands, I suppose, he needs lots of extra tender loving care during these times of sore throats and what we call, The Flivers (that’s shivering+fever.) He’s just not used to aches and pains. In the words of my father, “Nothing is too good for me when I’m sick.” Maybe this is why in my family we call M&Ms “medicine.”
Right now his big strong frame is throbbing and shivering under a pile of fluffy blankets while his first dose of penicillin and four Tylenol surge through his veins. With any luck, by dinnertime he’ll be able to sit up and take nourishment.
And coach Andy’s soccer practice this evening, and Luke’s soccer game tonight. And go to mutual. And, and, and…
Oh, bless ’em heart.