A Dippy Sickbed Bitch

My husband is one of those rare breeds of men that never get sick. I love this about him. It basically means that I can be a demanding bitch when I’m sick and have him wait on me hand and foot, while never having to reciprocate. It works well for us. I like it.

Somehow that changed over the last few weeks. He came home from work one day about three weeks ago with a raging case of stomach flu. You know, the kind that involves spewing from both ends. The kind of flu you rather die than have. Suddenly after all those years of him taking care of me, it was payback time. Years of back rubs while I was sick, midnight runs to the drugstore for cold medicines and orange juice and it was time for me to pay the piper. I emptied puke pails, made homemade chicken soup, ran up and down the stairs with sugar free jello (the best kind, especially black cherry) and sprite. I was his bitch!

Now, for the second time within a month, I find myself making homemade chicken noodle soup. There should be a limit on how many times within a given period a person should have to make homemade soup. It started out on Monday with a dry throat and by Tuesday was a raging illness. Now it’s Wednesday and he’s actually considering going to the doctor. I can’t recall the last time the hubster went to the doctor. It’s been that long.

The fact that the hubster is sick AGAIN goes against the nature of things. It’s screwing with the natural world order. Does he not understand that? And the real downside of it is, I can’t complain about what a demanding, annoying baby he is when he’s sick, because when I’m sick, I’m even worse than he is! And with him bringing this illness into our home, it’s quite likely that I could catch it too. I don’t think he’d be so willing to wait on me hand and foot if I ignored him when he was sick, although it’s tempting. So I’m stuck being his nurse; his sickbed-bitch.  (Sickbed-Bitch is an actual medical term—look it up. My picture is next to the definition.)