I’ll be the first to admit I’m a horrible patient. I hate being sick, and when I feel bad I want
to be left alone. I don’t want to talk or be touched, and I especially don’t want to argue.
Recently I had to leave work early. Nausea and fatigue turned into a headache, a
backache and a general feeling that things were not good. By the time I got home the aches were so
severe all I could do was crawl into bed, pull on an extra blanket and hope to
fall asleep.
Which I did until my well-meaning husband came home early to
take care of me. Bless his heart, he
doesn’t have a quiet bone in his body, so I woke to the sound of him opening
and closing dresser drawers for a change of clothes. Even though his tshirts, jeans, shorts, socks
and underwear are always in the same drawers he likes to rummage around each
time in hopes he’ll be surprised.
I turned over, moaning at the pain in my back. “Is it 5;30 already?” I ask. “No, I came home early to take care of
you.” Great. Just what I didn’t want to hear. He means well but I really need to be left
alone when I’m ill or I get pretty snarly.
He had stopped on the way home to get a new thermometer and naturally he
purchased a digital one instead of the old school mercury one I’d asked
for. After pressing the metal tip hard
against my aching forehead we heard the beep and he removed it to take a
look. “Oh, that’s bad, you have
97.8”. “That’s not even a fever,” I
say. But I feel feverish and have chills
so he decides to take his temperature to make sure the device is working. “Dang, 36!” he exclaims. Somehow in the process he has managed to
change the measurement to Celsius.
I ask for some Tylenol.
“Are you sure that’s the best thing for you to take?” he asks. Growling, I tell him I don’t want to debate
pain medicines I’d just like to have some Tylenol. He finds a bottle in the bathroom cabinet and
asks, “How many?” It would be too easy
to look at the dose on the bottle I suppose.
I drink the last sips of my 7up with the pill and slide back under the
covers. He tries to pat me or arrange
the blankets, and I ask as nicely as I can (which isn’t nice at all, it sounds
more like yelling “don’t touch me!”) for him to leave. I tell him I’ll call him if I need anything.
Not much later I realize I’m hungry. I press the intercom button on the upstairs
handset and listen to it ring. No
answer. A few minutes later I try again
and I hear my husband pick up and say loudly, “Hello? Hello?”
Unfortunately I can’t hear him through the handset, only hear his voice
floating up the stairs. Finally I give
up, call the home number from my cell phone and he answers. I ask if he can make me some rice with butter
and salt, that sounds good to me since all I’ve had is a few crackers. “Brown or white rice?” he asks. I sigh and hang up. When he appears in the door he is holding the
downstairs handset. “Let’s try that
intercom again, I think we just need to wait a bit longer after we speak then
we can hear each other.” I am not in the
mood to play walkie talkie. “How about
this,” I interject. “When the intercom
rings you just come upstairs. There is
no one else in the house to call you so you can safely assume it’s me when it
rings.” He considers this then
agrees. I am exhausted.
For the next 40 minutes I try to sleep but it is impossible.
I answer some work emails then put the
phone down and close my eyes. Finally I
press the intercom again, hoping my food is ready. This time he doesn’t answer but comes up the
stairs. Progress! I ask about the rice, and he says, “It’s
probably ready.” “Can I have some, and
some 7 up too please?” “We don’t have
any 7up.” “Could you get me some?” “You want me to go the store?” he asks. I reply sarcastically, “Unless you have a
manufacturing machine I would say yes”.
He turns to go, then turns back and says, “Would you like your rice
before I go?” “Yes please.”
A few minutes later he appears with a nice bowl of warm rice.
“Could you bring the butter and salt please? That’s really how I like my rice.” “Taste it first. I already put some olive oil on it.” I grit my teeth. “Could you PLEASE bring the butter and
salt? If not, I’ll just go down and get
it while you are at the store.” “Just be
sure not to put too much salt on it,” he says.
If I had the energy I’d throw something at him. He returns in a few minutes with the butter
dish and salt shaker, wordlessly leaving to get 7up.
While he is gone I hungrily wolf down my rice, adding butter
and salt as often as I please. I hadn’t
realized that part of my problem was I was “hangry”, which is the annoyance you
feel when you are hungry. Thanks to my
friend Amanda for this gem of a term.
Scraping the empty bowl for the last grains, I set it aside and lean
back to try and sleep.
Before I can drift off my kind husband walks in with a big
bottle of 7up for me. He hands it over
and turns to go back downstairs. Poor
guy, he has decided it’s not safe to even speak to me at this point. I don’t have the heart to ask him to take my
cup and fill it with ice. I wait until
he has gone and drag myself out of bed, cup in hand. Surely I have energy for this. As I head down stairs I hear him open the
door to let the dog in. “Did you give
Duke a good brushing before you bring him in?”
He turns to walk back outside, the dog slowly following. “Come on, Duke, I have to brush you…….”
I know I should give him a break, he’s been so sweet to want
to take care of me and try to make me feel better. But like I said, I’m a horrible patient and
I’m not feeling sweet or generous or anything but cranky. Walking back upstairs with a cup full of ice,
I reach the bedside and open the 7up.
Taking several long gulps I consider what my boss suggested. Maybe I’ll fire him as my nurse. After all, he fired one of his at the
hospital post-surgery. Hmmmmm.
