This past winter (the season of my discontent) I was sick for what seemed like three months. I eventually found out I had Flu A. I would love to say that during this time my wife was my rock and doted on me like I was a war hero recovering from wounds I received while saving a busload of orphans from an evil communist monster. But that would be a lie. Instead I was treated like a prisoner of war. Okay, maybe thats a little dramatic.
Here’s how it went mostly. I would get up in the morning, do all the work I normally do, then in the evening I would say, “Wow I feel really run down.”
To which my wife would respond. “Dummy, you need to rest. It’s the only way you’re going to actually feel better.”
Me: “That’s not very doctorly of you.”
My beautiful wife: “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
Me: “Can you listen to my cough?”
My caring wife: “Again, I am not that kind of doctor. You really talk a lot when you aren’t feeling good.”
Me: “I should probably get up on the roof and check on the gutters.”
My wife who is more intelligent than me: “Are you dense? Please lay down and take a tylenol.”
Me: “Tylenol. Can I consider that a prescription?”
My wife who is a doctor, but not that kind: “Stop it. You actually should go to the doctor.”
Me later in the evening: moaning on the couch watching reruns of Bones.
My wife who if you haven’t figured it out by now, is very patient: “Can you stop making that noise, I’m trying to concentrate.”
This scene was repeated a few times before I actually went to the doctor who gave me a prescription for a chest x-ray that I never got. I eventually recovered because I’m very very tough. My wife, who again is not a medical doctor, has informed me that I could have cut my recovery time in half if I had just rested. She may be right we’ll never know. One thing we do know, never throughout this whole ordeal did she bring me soup.
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