Towards the end of our holiday (about which I promise you will read very, very soon), The Husband fell sick. Very, very sick. Because that's the only way he falls sick. His sickness, like him, always tries to go the distance. What's more, he doesn't even acknowledge his sickness in the initial stages so it's impossible for me or for anyone else to know that something's wrong. He did whine a little bit but all that whining was about the Sun and I really didn't give a shit. So when it finally hit us, it hit us both like a brick to the face.
After we got back home, the coughing began. The full-length mirror in our bedroom is cracked because of his coughs. So are the windowpanes in the living room, and we drink out of plastic sippy-cups now because it's impossible to use glassware around his coughs. I feel like exaggerating a little bit more but that can wait till I talk about how I almost died of death over the weekend. The problem with The Husband is that he's a manly man who doesn't get affected by any kind of flu until it catches on and gets worse. Then the manly man becomes the biggest man-baby on the planet and says things like, "Can I get a hug and a kiss, I'm so sad and sick!". Now, a strong woman would say, "Oh NO you don't, mister. I can't risk catching anything from you so YOU stay away from me". But I being myself a massive PUSHOVER, gave in. And that just opened up a window into my future where I saw myself as the biggest pushover of a parent. May the good Lord above have mercy on me.
Last Thursday, I woke up feeling like I didn't get enough sleep. I got through the entire day like a zombie, feeling tired despite the full 8+ hours of sleep I got. At one point, I even decided to nap but I couldn't because my furnace wasn't around. I hated feeling that way, so I took it upon myself to do a little extra of everything. For example, not only did I empty the trash but I also deep-cleaned the trash can. Not only did I do two sets of laundry, I also ironed all of our clothes. Staying extra active was going to make everything go away, I thought. But by 8 p.m, I knew that I had to crash. That's when it hit me. Like a brick. To the face.
On Friday morning, when The Husband turned to me in bed and whispered "good morning", I wheezed "FUCK YOU!" with all my might. Now here's what you should know about me. When I feel weak, I try to convince myself that I'm fine because I go into denial. But once things go south and I know there's no turning back, I become the whiniest, most horrible sick person you will ever come across. Basically, I'm no different from the man I just whined about above. If anything, I'm a lot worse.
This time around though, we were both riding the same boat for sick people that was barely afloat on a stream of self-pity. This past weekend, both The Husband and I were holding cough-competitions to see whose coughs could break more windowpanes and who had it worse. I won because WebMD (and The Bromance) convinced me that I was dying of TB and The Husband had to deal with that. But after two days of complete rest and long naps induced by "All-in-one" Lemsips, I'm happy to announce that we're doing much, much better. We're healthier and I'm not dying anymore. We're still slightly weak and wake each other up with our coughs, but we're getting there.
This entire post was in a way an apology for not publishing that holiday post already! The thing is, it's only when I started writing it that I realised that I had a lot to say, which although is not surprising, I wouldn't want to burden you or your internet bandwidth with 7000 words and many, many pictures in just a single post. The post was beginning to make even my draft editor hang from time to time and considering how sick I was when I was trying to type it out, I'm impressed that I didn't break my computer out of frustration. So I've finally decided to do it as a series. It'll be called 'Southampton 2016' and will contain 7 parts. Hope you enjoy! :)
Photo credit: bettie-rage via Visualhunt / CC BY-NC-ND