A Crippling Disorder

I have a husband whose illness may become terminal.

I try not to think about it...and when he tries to raise the subject, I promptly start discussing the weather. Or whether I should repaint the bathroom. Or will Steven and Chris be serving turkey or ham for Thanksgiving. Anything other than the Great Demise.

Besides, I've already told him I intend to die first because I don't understand insurance. Or electricity for that matter but apparently we don't need to know about that.

His suffering has been intense since the weekend when we had a cottage-ful of guests and, one by one, all the men fell ill. There was moaning and coughing and complaints about aches. Every one of them took to carrying their own box of kleenex. To ease their discomfort they gulped down all my Advil Cold and Sinus. Then they sucked soothing throat lozenges and chased them with beer.

No one stayed awake for the movie nor did anyone get a decent sleep due to the hacking and blowing and gargling in the night.

Next the women began to succumb. They made comfort foods for their menfolk and played quietly at Scrabble and drank lemon tea.

It is now days later, the company has departed and the general malaise continues from the recliner. "This is the worst cold I've ever had," I hear as I offer chicken soup.

No, I mutter, it is the same cold that circulates every September when the kids return to school and trade germs and share the fortified robust version with all the adults they come in contact with. He knows better than to suggest we head into Emergency. (I will refuse on the grounds that is full of whining sick people.)

He insists that he is healthy enough to go to his job. That way all his coffee buddies and co-workers and customers get to offer up sympathetic murmurings--and possibly share in the agony by contracting the virus. Then to emphasize how un-well he is, he leaves work early to return to the sofa.

If the phone rings I run to pick up quickly--so as to allow him to continue sleeping. And to spare whoever is on the other end from the whining and detailing of symptoms. Bad enough for them but I don't think I can listen to that list again.

I know he will mend and put all this suffering behind him. In the meantime, I am trying to be sympathetic--and spending as much time as possible outdoors tidying my flower gardens. That has been difficult given the turn in the weather. Yesterday I got sleeted on.

I'm not sure what my best plan of attack is. I know I too will probably fall victim to the dreaded bug but in the meantime should I hang around it indoors, inviting it into my mucous linings? Or am I best to stick it out in the bracing north wind and gales of September?

Oh, and in the interest of full disclosure, the only reason his illness may be terminal is that I may have to put him out of his misery. If only I could understand insurance policies I might know what I could get away with. Ho hum.

Cough.

Old-Fart-Dom

It is a bit of a sideshow really--off the beaten path, freakishly all male yet somehow compulsively inclusive and, dare I say it?, entertaining in an aberrant fashion.

The diaspora of which I speak, if it has to have a name, would reflect its age (middle-aged to old but firmly entrenched in the past); its mental state (constipated); and its preferred habitat (Canadian Tire aisles, mall benches and the species can often be found speeding up and slowing down in the fast lane of major highways).

This demographic anomaly seems to have been happily hopping around the Monopoly board until one day, one by one, they didn't make the turn at Go.

This is normally labelled retirement or downsizing or being made redundant. They passed Go that fateful day but then just slid quietly off into the snack area and stagnated.

There they sit amid the Bits 'n' Bites not knowing what to do with themselves nor quite knowing how to get back in the game.

They, however, think themselves still relevant and make odd proclamations in loud voices at inappropriate times. This makes young relatives nod to each other and move away to check electronic devices.

When viewed from the near-distance, this stage of life seems like it would be ideal. Enough income to eat well, live comfortably. Maybe travel. Time for all those books one meant to read, hobbies to be explored. Heck, one could even strike up a conversation with the good-looking woman who does your laundry and cooks your meals. And it need not be about eavestroughing or varmint control or potholes.

The defining characteristic is madness. Not in the cerebral--or even--chaotic sense. No, it is an anger whose source defies definition and management. These men reserve a special virulence for telemarketers--those undereducated youths and women who will do almost anything to secure employment--whose calls interrupt their nap or dinner--or nothing.

It is the anger--at everything--that surprises. Is it not illogical to be so impatient when one has all the time in the world? Why stomp through a rainy day just because you had planned to cut the grass on that particular day? There will always be tomorrow. And, if not, rest assured someone else will cut it. Heaven forbid, if one was to pass away without having the lawn in immaculate condition.

I know there are couples who play bridge or golf; there are those who take up square dancing and bird watching in their retirement years. Did the Old Fart gene somehow skip this group of men? Or did their partners bone up on their recreational leadership skills and lure them back out into the world of interesting pastimes? If so, kudos to them.

As for the rest of Womanhood, operating in a parallel universe to the Kingdom of Old Fartedness, remember, it is important to maintain your female friendships. There is medical evidence proving that women with strong connections to their kind (i.e. support groups) are healthier and happier.  

And wine helps.