SICK OF IT ALL

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I was very noble at the start.

My wife woke me up in a less than pleasant fashion with moans and groans as she started her morning at 5 a.m. with more medical problems than Boris Yeltsin.

She had her bases covered in terms of sickness -- from head to toe she was a living medical case study that would have covered about a semester of med school. To determine the nature of her illness, I began asking her medically oriented questions. "Do you feel like you ate something bad, like maybe a mayonnaise and cheese sandwich? Does it kinda feel like your skin is trying to crawl off your body? Does your throat feel like you swallowed some sandpaper?"

She peered up at me from her crouch on the bathroom floor and said, "Get out. Get out before I kill you." She was definitely sick, I determined, and it was with a flu that, should it fall into the hands of Iraqis, would be of far greater concern than anthrax.

I decided that I would make it my personal goal to nurse her back to health. I took her to the doctor who gave her antibiotics. Any time you go to a doctor, you will get antibiotics. Doctors are crazy about antibiotics. You could walk in with a garden rake sticking out of your stomach and they would instinctively write out a prescription for antibiotics. (By the way, when I picked up the medicine, I noticed it had one of those threatening stickers on it that says, "Finish all medicine. Failure to finish all medicine may make you come down with the Plague or something equally horrible, so finish all of these pills. And don’t try to lie because we know." Have any of you ever finished your medicine? I mean, I have made some really valiant attempts at finishing those things, but don’t you feel like you’re wasting valuable time when you’re popping these things and you’re not really sick anymore? Just curious.)

I was on sick patrol all day long, shoving medicine down her throat, taking her temperature, and clearing out of her path with she did her Edwin Moses impersonation, leaping the bed to get to the bathroom before she became volcanic again. I am pretty sure I was doing a good job because later in the day, my dear, sweet wife looked up at me as I handed her another pill and said, "You’re the meanest nurse. You’re like Nurse Ratched." When you’re sick, you have to do a bunch of stuff that you don’t like to do in order to get well, so I figured that my militaristic approach must be working and that she had just given me a real compliment.

I was diligent in my duties. I knew that to nurse my wife back to health, I would have to be on guard for all hours, tending to her every need until she was on the mend. That lasted until later that evening, when I had joined her at the Porcelain Altar of Gastric Discomfort. Yes, by that evening, my wife had shared her friendly germs with me, and I was kneeling in my bathroom thinking, "How can this be happening? I haven’t had tequila in years!"

My first thought, as I sat on the bathroom floor, was "You know, this tile feels really good. It’s nice and cold and very soothing." It then occurred to me that I was falling asleep on a bathroom floor, which many consider a sign of a much bigger problem, mainly one that involves lots and lots of tequila.

So, I decided to make my way to my bedroom. Just I was about to get up, my wife came in the bathroom and said, "Serves you right! I hope yours last for weeks!"

No, kidding, of course. She didn’t say a thing because she only stood there for a second and then pulled an Edwin Moses again.

By the time we both got ready for bed, we looked at the clock and noticed that it was around 8:30 p.m. Generally we haven’t eaten dinner by 8:30, so this was indeed an early night. My wife was thinking ahead and had gathered up two small trashcans to put on either side of the bed. (It’s one of those really romantic Martha Stewart touches that most couples overlook. "For a really romantic evening, try spending it vomiting together. I made trashcans by hollowing out the heads of disobedient workers!")

My wife made an effort to take care of me during my sick time, but this was difficult for two reasons. First, she was still sick herself. Second, in her words, "You’re a meaner patient than you are a nurse." I have no idea what she means by that because I am one of the bravest and most courageous people when suffering through sickness. (Note from Mike’s subconscious: Mike apparently has a little of the flu kicking around, and he just had a moment of delirium. When he is sick, he is about as tough as mashed potatoes. His wife was right to complain. I couldn’t bear to be around him, and I’m his subconscious.)

Eventually, we struggled out of our funks and got better. (And, I’m told, I’ve gotten nicer.) It only took a few days, but we managed to heal up nicely. Hopefully, it will be a long time before either of us is sick. Curled up on the bathroom floor is not my idea of a good time. In the meantime, I’m steering clear of tequila just as a precaution.