Sick Sydney

This whole role reversal thing ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.  I’m a lousy patient.  Nyel apparently failed Nursing 101.  The last ten days have been hell all the way around.

For me it’s been fever, coughing, chills, coughing, sweating, coughing, shaking, coughing, twenty-four-seven.  No appetite.  Not thirsty.  Tired, tired, tired but only able to sleep in snatches.  Cough myself awake.  The diagnosis was bronchitis.  It surely is something worse. Bronchitis sounds so ordinary.  This is not ordinary.  This is the pits.

Watchful Nyel

Nyel comes to the doorway periodically.  He stares at me.  Then he goes away.  I know he feels he should DO something but he hasn’t a clue.  Could you get me some water I ask.    Could I have some juice I whine.  I’d like to try some hot tea.  He’s accommodating.  I’m cranky.  Why do I have to ask I say. I can’t read your mind he says.  Maybe you could take my temperature I say.  Not with the cat thermometer for god’s sake I say.  Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.

I don’t.  But by some good fortune, Nyel is still in the doorway.  Or sitting nearby in a chair.  He hasn’t filed the divorce papers yet.  Even though he must be sick of hearing this wretched cough.  But still I’m a bitch.  You’d think after spending 100 days in the hospital last year, you’d have a clue, I say.  He looks so sorry.  I feel terrible.  In all ways.

Comfort Food

Today is Day Eleven.   But who is counting.  I think I’m feeling a little better.  I’ve eaten dinner two nights in a row, now.  Lamb chops, baked potato, peas.  Last night made-from-scratch mac-and-cheese and spinach for a veggie.  Nyel is the best cook in the world.  I slept pretty well last night.  Nyel hasn’t moved out yet.  God is good.  We might make it after all.