Let me preface this with a(n emphatic) declaration: I love my hubby, and would not want to be without him.
Some of you can now probably guess, based on the title, where this post is heading. Hubby fell ill several days ago. A trip to the doctor revealed that he had, somehow, contracted streptococcus (or strep throat). The doctor reassured him that he would be just fine in a week’s time and wrote a prescription for trusty ole penicillin.
Feeling uncharacteristically nurturing, I braved freezing temperatures to gather the proper ingredients for homemade chicken noodle soup, stocked up on Puffs Plus with Vicks, downloaded some movies via the internet, and prepared to mother my poor hubby till bacterium do part. Yet I blundered, I made one critical oversight:
I forgot to tie him up.
Terrified that he would infect me, Hubby insisted I sleep in a separate room. I eventually conceded, locking myself away from my beloved for a prolonged period of 10 hours, assuming he would use this extended time to sleep and not wishing to wake him early. Yet upon my return to his side, I discovered he had been up half the night playing video games and watching television, collapsing in exhaustion around 3AM. I should have gone out and bought the rope then, but how was I to anticipate the madness to come?
Hubby boiled our thermometer to death. I have no idea how or when; likely it was in the wee hours of the morn when I slept. He developed a distinct odor, a menthol-and-salt-mix of Vicks and spilt chicken broth, that our dog finds irresistible (Savvy has been reduced to a sock thief, sneaking off to lick at the remnants of soup and crackers that seep from his pores). Our cat is addicted to the tufts of Puffs Hubby leaves strewn about the house. And then there is the internet.
Anyone who has lived with a microorganism fanatic enthusiast can attest to their obsession interest in all things unseen-by-the-naked-eye (finger-lickin’ good does not exist in such a world–”Do you know how much staphylococcus is on your hands?!”) Hubby is one such zealot enthusiast, as evidenced by our murdered thermometer (because the best way to kill bacterium is to expose it to critical temperatures, he has often explained). The internet preys on such men, luring them into novella-length discourse on this or that bacteria, the various theories of how two or more strains interact and play upon the human body; a smorgasbord of topics for the interested researcher. Even after receiving a diagnoses from a medical professional, Hubby’s finger becomes the proverbial stick, a google search his dead horse. Today, we visited a different doctor to get a second opinion on Hubby’s strep throat.
Tonight, I’m locking him in the bedroom and sleeping with the router beneath my pillow. Hubby needs some rest, and I’m too cheap to buy another thermometer.
And I have to ask–how do mums with three sick children pull it off?