Let the Fight Begin!

Ding-ding-ding.

In this corner, weighing in at 205 pounds and wearing the plaid Pittsburgh Steelers pajamas, it’s the strong and virile, man of all men, Hubby Fabrizio. 

And, in the opposite corner, weighing in at (yeah, right) and wearing a stern face with wild sleep-deprived eyes, it’s the slightly brain damaged, woman with little patience, Wifey Fabrizio.

Let the fight begin!!   And welcome to Casa de Fabrizio for the last 48 hours.

The hubby has the flu. And, it’s not a timid virus; it’s the kick-your-butt, knock-you-down for 48 unrelenting hours- version of the bug.  The poor thing has had a fever of 101-103 degrees for the last two days. He’s dizzy and woozy (he sounds like a bizarre combination of a couple of Snow White’s Dwarves).  He coughs more than he breathes in fresh air.  He has traded his virility and strength for a pillow and seven blankets. He’s whimpered to my mom on the phone for sympathy.  He actually asked me last night, after yet another bout of sweating and chills, and sweating and chills, if he was experiencing menopause – or at least what it would feel like.   I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was experiencing what most women go through regularly and even on a daily basis, long before menopause.  And, frankly, he wasn’t faring nearly as well.

I’ve tried, very unsuccessfully, to be patient.  But, it’s difficult because my strong-willed and hard-headed hubby refuses to be helped properly when he’s sick. I always say I’d rather have to care for 10 two- year- olds with the flu vs. one 40-something stubborn man to whom I happen to be married (at least I still think I am anyway).  Sure, he finally relented and took Tylenol regularly. He walked around with a digital thermometer glued to his face.  He agreed to stay covered to try to “sweat it out,” although he snuck his extremities out from under the covers every time he thought I wasn’t looking.   But, he wouldn’t put a cold compress on his head or get into a cool bath to bring his body temperature down and by the time he finally did agree to go to the doctor (and weathered a terrible snowstorm and my non-admirable temper to get there) the doc told him he was too late.  In order to be treated with Tamiflu, the patient has to actually show up at the doctor’s office within 24 hours of the first symptoms. (We’re not going to head to I told you so land, just in case I really am still married at this point). It took a giant battle yesterday morning to coerce him into going to the doctor and the experience was a complete bust.  The tired and grouchy nurse practitioner gladly took his co-pay, despite telling him she couldn’t do a thing to help him. She then sent him to the drugstore to raid the over-the-counter flu treatments without any direction or guidance. Somewhere after buying dog treats and cereal (no, I don’t understand it either) he stocked up on a variety of medications – and a new thermometer, just in case.  And, I’m certain that nurse prac sealed my fate for me. I’ll never be able to convince my husband to go to the doctor again when he is sick.

It’s hard to be patient, caring, and even in the same room with an ailing spouse when you are as selfish as me.  He’s been ultimately caring through all of my medical dramas, yet I’ve been unable to reciprocate.  Why?  No, I’m not heartless.  I’m scared to death to get what he has.  Even if I was in solid health, I wouldn’t want it or have time to get it.  Although, who really has time in their schedule to get sick? This isn’t just a sneezy-cold folks.  This is a beast of a bug.  And, haven’t I told you? I have M.S.  An increased body temperature brought on by the flu is a no-no.

He coughed near my food on Monday night so I switched sides of the couch.  He was highly offended, but I’m sorry.   I’m not risking anything. The poor guy chose to sleep out on the couch for the last couple of nights. (I’m highly grateful for his willingness to volunteer to do so).  I’m counting the minutes until I can Lysol the house from ceiling to floor.  I’m practically drinking Purell to ward off contagion. 

I was telling my story to colleagues at work this morning, mainly because one caught me mid-sigh (a loud and exasperated expelling of frustration) while I was walking out of my office and into the hallway.  One of them told me the funniest thing I’ve heard since finding out I have M.S.  She said to come home and tell the hubby, “I only have one good nerve left (literally) and yes, you’re on it right now!”

But that wouldn’t be sensitive or kind, would it?  Nor would it be kind to recount the intimate details of all of our frustrations, debates, tirades, and arguments over the last couple of days.  So I refrained from making the comment, and I’ll refrain from telling you all of the specifics of the Fabrizio Flu Frenzy.  If not, I’m certain I’m going to have to exterminate the couch and move onto it myself permanently.