Tag Archives: sick

Serving two helpings of sick for supper

I have a recurring fantasy. I will be on my deathbed, ready for my final words of love and affection from my family. Roy will lean over the bed, take my hand tenderly and whisper in my ear, “What were you thinking about fixing for supper?” That is, if he lives longer than me…which he won’t if he asks that question too often.

Everyone knows that not only am I a mediocre cook, I also don’t much enjoy it. Somehow, when Roy and I got married, I must have missed the part which said that I would do all the cooking. The sad part of this is that Roy is a much better cook—he just hates it even more than I do.

Over the years, it has been his mission to make sure I end up with the cooking. He happily mows lawn, tends garden, even does some laundry. But inevitably, no matter what, he asks that question: “What are you planning for supper?”

It doesn’t matter the circumstances. I have come home at 9 o’clock at night, dragged in the door, dropped my things and been ready to follow them down and he will be sitting at the empty table and no matter how dangerous I might look, he always sings out, “What are you planning for supper? I’m starved!”

His perseverance in this little ceremony even extends to illnesses. I can be laid out on the bed, wheezing like a noisy radiator, smeared in smelly Vicks and he will come in, look me over and say, “What will you be fixing for supper? Soup would be good for you.”


Dinner preparation of the sick…

I sniff up the snot sliding down my nose, slurp up the drool that has been coming from my mouth and suggest that he do something with himself that is anatomically impossible. He leaves and inevitably I will feel sorry for him and go out to fix him something. He never seems to mind eating a meal that has been fixed by his disease-ridden wife and even worse, he never seems to get the disease!

The only thing he invariably agrees to cook are steaks on the grill. First, he loves steak. Second, he thinks it’s expensive meat. And third, without even trying, I burn it on the grill more often than I don’t. So, if I really want the night off of cooking, I am likely to propose steaks on the grill. It’s the only time I hear those magical words, “I’ll cook it.”

So, that’s actually going to be the end of that final fantasy. When Roy leans over to ask what’s for supper, instead of saying, “I’m dying, you insensitive rat!” I’m going to reply softly, “Well, I was thinking I’d make steaks on the grill one more time.” He will stand up, head for the door, and announce to anyone listening, “Where’s my lighter? I’ve got to get that grill warm before I start the steaks.”

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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My Nursing May Be Hazardous to your Health

For those who know me well, the following statement will not come as a surprise: My nursing skills could be fatal. You need a band-aid? I might be able to help—provided its not bleeding or icky. You need someone to tend you while you’re sick? Forget me; you’d be better off with a construction worker using a sledge and a jackhammer.

Just to give you an idea, let’s explore Roy’s last illness. He doesn’t get sick very often because he knows what kind of nursing he will get and he wants to live. But, one day he came home with a scratchy throat. lozenge-462867_1280When he was foolish enough to admit to it, I followed him around the house for a day holding out orange juice and some throat lozenges I found in the back of the medicine cabinet. The orange juice burned his sore throat and the throat lozenges expired in 2010, but he took them both just to get rid of me.

Then, the poor man developed a cough. Now, I have to admit that when it comes to other people coughing, I’m selfish.  At the first cough, I fling my hand, my sleeve or the nearest gas mask over my face. I’ve seen all those epidemic movies, you know. All those diseases that wipe out whole populations always begin with someone coughing. Roy is on his own with a cough, because I am not dying of some mutated plague that begins with him coughing!

The fever came next. He dragged himself home from work and went straight to bed. Of course, plenty of rest was what he needed. I did my nursing  job by flinging open the bedroom door every ten minutes and inquiring, “You okay?” The first time I let the cat in. She climbed on top of him and he was forced to get up and  throw her out. The second time I checked, I found a spider on the door. My shriek caused him to sit straight up in bed, convinced, I’m sure, that we were under nuclear attack at the least.

At that point, he was ungrateful enough to request that I leave him ALONE. Of course I could do that. All he had to do was ask.  I left him alone  for an hour, then tiptoed in and whispered in his ear, “You any better?” He wasn’t, especially after he jerked his head up in surprise and cracked it on my jaw. I left him for another hour, then opened the door so slowly that it made that weird, creaking noise. He turned over in bed with a sigh. “I still feel lousy,” he muttered.

“I’m so sorry, what can I get you?” I asked in my most understanding nurse’s voice.

“I would love some takeout from HuHot,” he said.

“But honey, I’d have to drive for four hours to get you take out from there,” I protested.

“Good; maybe go twice then,” he punched his pillow, pulled the blanket over his head and rolled over on his other side.

For those of you who think it couldn’t have happened that way, you’re right. I did leave out some parts, like when I brought him aspirin and water and dropped the aspirin under the bed and spilled the water on him. Then, there was the cold pack I put on his feet while he was sleeping, because they told me it would help with fever—it didn’t.

If you’re worried about Roy, though, he did recover his health. But I think it might have been in spite of my nursing efforts; not because of them. My nursing skills should probably come with one of those government hazard warnings!

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