An honest-to-God, diagnosed-by-an-actual-doctor illness.
Chad's a pretty awesome guy. But, when he's sick...
I spent this week trying to dig deep for patience, trying to find a well of sympathy, trying to be a "good wife". I doubt I succeeded. At best, I was "mediocre wife".
Day 1: Chad tells me his throat is starting to hurt and asks me to look at it. I, with my extensive lack of medical knowledge, say, "It does look a bit red. Why don't you get some chloraseptic
or suck on some lozenges." Then, four hours later, "Chad, should we call and tell you family that we're not going to be able to make it?""No," my 6'1" husband replies weakly. "I'll be fine." He was one back-of-his-hand-to-his-forehead away from a swoon. "But I think you need to drive to Davis. I don't think I can focus enough. Can we stop for soup?"
Day 2: After an exhausting night in the hotel, during which Elizabeth decided to channel her aunts and party all night long, Chad informs me that he feels too ill to go over to his sister's house for breakfast. At least that's what I think he said. In order to "help" his sore throat, he's taken to talking with his jaw locked. Because that causes less strain. And is more effective than actually taking medication. So what I hear is, "Hi don ta you taa the ist to brafast."
He rallies for the baptism and then goes back to the hotel to get more rest. His mother finally talks some sense into him and he takes a pain reliever and buys lozenges.
Day 3: We must stop someplace for soup. Because it's the only thing he can handle. At least, that's what I think "Ah eed sou" means.
Day 4: He goes to the doctor where he is diagnosed with Worst Strep Throat in History. He goes home to bed while Elizabeth and Joseph go to daycare. I feel sorry for him for about 2.5 seconds. Because...
When I had the stomach flu a few months back and was running a fever, throwing up and couldn't stop my chills, I called in sick. And my loving husband said, "Cool...since you're home, the kids can stay home from daycare." And, at the end of a hellish day, he came home saying, "So what were you thinking for dinner?" as I lay, sweating and pale, on the couch.
Day 5: He goes in to work for a few hours and then home to sleep. He says he's on the mend, but feels a bit weak. Fair enough. Good thing the kids are at Boppa and Rachel's. He takes long naps and eats creamy soups from the deli.
I walk in the door after spending nearly two hours picking up kids and he says, in a weak voice from the couch, "Can you make me a smoothie?"
Then he limps, limps, in to the kitchen to see if I need help. Apparently strep throat causes limping.
Day 6: He feels well enough for Elizabeth to stay home with him. He's truly on the mend.
Day 7: Back to work, but "my throat still feels a little scratchy."
One week, kids. One week and I didn't once resort to violence, pill popping, booze or spend our savings on a one-way ticket to an Australian resort and spa.
Maybe I am a "good wife".
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