~ Diseased Hag ~

I’ve been sick for something like, six weeks.   I tell you this, not so much to be informational, as to cheekily pander for sympathy.

I can’t even claim it is something more serious than bronchitis and all the crud that that implies.  It’s not even a noble or heroic illness to be borne.  It’s just a nasty, phlegmy cold.

As I basked in my hot shower this evening, trying to loosen the phlegm that has plagued my lungs and sinuses, I hacked and I gargled, and I snorted, and I growled up all the crud I could, when it hit me:  I’m NOT ever going to be a romantic heroine.

I thought of all the sweet heroines in books and movies, and shoot, even some of my friends, who, when ill, somehow manage to retain their femininity.   They flush beautifully when feverish.  Me?  I get clammy and pale, and turn a distinctive pea-green shade of yuck.

Their sick-bed hair is charmingly tousled.  I end up looking slightly Rastafarian.

They blow their noses gently into their hankies.  I honk like a moose in mating season, while blowing through entire boxes of Puffs-Plus-Lotion.  Tissues litter the floor, because the trash can is ALWAYS just a little too far away.

They cough quietly into their hands.  I sound like – I kid you not – Snaggle Puss, as my coughing jags run rampant for several minutes, and frequently end in an unintended, non-controllable fart.

They bravely suffer their aches and pains and charge determinedly on.   I whine and whimper, and am always SURE this is THE END of me.

What I’m saying is, I’m not exactly a text-book patient.  I wish I could help it, but I can’t, honest.  And I felt bad that My Captain has to see this side of me.  Why?  Why couldn’t I be just a LITTLE bit feminine when I’m ailing?

I look to him for reassurance that he still loves me, despite my disgustingly diseased body’s failings.  I sent him a text describing my many sufferings today.  His response?

“You’re a mess. Don’t cough on my pillow.”

Not a HOT mess. Just a mess.  Can’t he see that I’m obviously DYING?!!!  Couldn’t he throw me a bone or something?  Doesn’t he realize that with every cough that makes me pee my pants a little, I feel more and more like a hag??

I’d decided to go cough on his pillow, while probably peeing myself on the way, when his next text came through:

“Try to get some rest.  I love you dearly.”

Well then.

I feel better already.

Don’t judge.