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.