by Clare Taylor (Thu Nov 12, 2009)
What is it about men and illness? Or rather, what is it about my reaction to my
husband when he's ill? I would like to start by saying (your honour) that I am not a sociopath. I do possess the ability to empathise with other human beings,
sometimes to a fault. I give to charities. I put myself out for friends. I will
sit and read ‘Treasure Island' to my son and not only translate the long words
for him but do all the voices as well.
(Did you know all pirates are Cornish? Well, they are here, anyway...) I make shortbread for my father-in-law, I give
to telethons. But once or twice every
year I am reminded that no matter how nice a person I like to think I am, when
it comes right down to it, I can be as unfeeling as the least sympathetic
school nurse you ever had the misfortune to come across.
There's a clue in that last sentence to the circumstances in
which this personality trait reveals itself. It's the word ‘nurse.' I am a rubbish one. Well, let's clarify that a
little; I am a rubbish nurse only when one particular person is sick; my
husband.
If my sons are ill I am (more or less) patience personified.
I will put my life on hold, cancelling appointments, and rushing backwards and
forwards to change CD's and DVD's at each pathetic whimper from the sofa. I may
mutter under my breath, but I will stagger drunkenly out of my bed at 3am to mop
fevered brows and change damp sheets as the little pashas demand.
However; when it's my beloved husband who's ailing, I'm
afraid Florence Nightingale leaves town. The Lady of the Lamp goes off-duty,
and Nurse Nasty comes to stay.
In my least caring moments I think that my husband has
probably brought my unsympathetic attitude upon himself. Like most men of my
acquaintance, he can't handle illness, and the big strong man I married reverts
immediately to being a pampered little boy; not a transformation I enjoy.
For example, he has just spent the last weekend lying in bed
or on the sofa, wilting as delicately as a Victorian heroine suffering from a wasting
disease. When he finally managed to get vertical, it was only to sit shivering
at the dining room table, delicately picking at his food. He devoured industrial quantities of Lemsip (a
particular bugbear this, as he never tells me when he finishes the pack, leaving
me to discover the cupboard is bare only on the rare occasion I might actually
want some myself), and had no compunction about drinking the last of the orange
juice. Or indeed, about drinking ALL of the orange juice.
I know, I know. I should be more understanding. But when a
man spends the week away working and leaves his wife to care for children and
homestead, coming home to languish theatrically around the place with Man Flu is
never going to go down well. There I was, selfishly looking forward to at least
a little lightening of the load for a couple of days, and instead I got Beth
from 'Little Women' to care for in addition to my two cherubs. Hardly a weekend
off, is it?
And oh my, the pronouncements! On Monday, he took his temperature and on
learning that it read 38.6 deg, pronounced, in the Voice of Doom, ‘Well, that's
perfectly clear, then.' Perfectly clear HOW? Perfectly clear WHAT? I'll tell
you what's perfectly clear mate; if I felt a bit ropey and the highest the
thermometer read was 38.6, I would be up and doing the school run as usual. Probably
feeling like hell, and no doubt telling all and sundry that I was a bit under
the weather, but still up and about. Time out for women doesn't usually kick in
until at least 39.5 deg, does it?
Enough moaning though. We all know that the ‘women are the
weaker sex' myth is just that; a myth. I
suppose I should just accept that fact and get on with being properly
sympathetic to my husband so that he can damn well hurry up and just get
better.
Of course, now I feel a sore throat coming on. Before I go and minister, I might just fetch
myself a Lemsip first...
...oh, for chrissake.
