My sick, dying husband was diagnosed today.
He has “Congestion.
I think he’s going to live.
Why are men such babies when they’re sick? The day after I pushed a 7 1/2 pound child out of my sweet, little vagina, I was up cleaning my house, vacuuming, cooking. Keep in mind, I was still bleeding, cramping, I had stitches in between my asshole and vagina, I was still passing “junk” and had a little man sucking on my tits every 2 hours. Granted, that’s not what you call sick, but you get the point… I WAS FUNCTIONING.
Tony has “congestion” and he’s couch ridden with tissue boxes surrounding him, blankets, talking about how bad his chest hurts from coughing every 5 seconds while moaning and acting like he’s hacking up a lung.
When he talks, it sounds like every word might be the last word he utters before passing on and leaving me a widow at 32.
I could see if the doctor said he had pneumonia, or bronchitis or hell, even a cold, but the man has CONGESTION.
Oh well, after 13 years of marriage, I’ve come to accept this kind of behavior as the norm, but just because I accept it, doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I still want to trip him on purpose when he walks by hacking, while holding his chest. I still want to tell him to shut! up! when he complains, but I don’t.
I smile lovingly, ask him if he needs anything, then flip him off when he turns around.
And once in a while, I’ll ask, ever so lovingly, “Sweety, don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a weeteeny little bit?”
Then I say, “Just kidding”.
But I’m not kidding.
No, I’m not.