Last week, Daughter 2 came home sick. Fever, aches, puking, stuffiness, sore throat, chills, snot, snot and snot. We high-tailed it to our favorite pediatrician (where Daughter 2 did cartwheels in the waiting room--it's what she does). Strep and The Flu were ruled out; it was a virus. We'd have to wait it out. So I slept maybe three hours during this run of her virus and then ...
... Daughter 1 got it. And then ...
... I got it. So, there I was sneezing and peeing and coughing and chilling and mouth-breathing and aching and not sleeping and exhausted. BUT, what's worse is this: Brian got a man cold.
I sat on our blue love seat covered in two blankets with tissues shoved up my nostrils and green gunk coming out my eyes and my left ear. My lungs were making the sound of a muffler-less motorcycle when Brian came in and coughed once. He sat down beside me, pulled the blankets on to him as well, reminding my right leg that warmth was a privilege not a right, and asked me to toss him the thermometer that was on the table beside him.
His temperature was 98.9; he was afraid he was going to start hallucinating. My temperature was 115.7; I could make a grilled cheese on my belly.
When we finally were able to summon the strength to get up from the love seat, I took a few ibuprofens and rubbed some Vicks on my chest.
Brian took some allergy medicine, some daytime sinus medicine, some honey tea with lemon, some aspirin, a tablespoon of cough medicine, and four green m&m's.
I basically let the girls eat whatever they wanted for dinner, which is to say, they ate all of my Taco-flavored Doritos and some string cheese. I poured some ravioli into a mug for Brian. He pulled just his hands from the top of the quilts he had piled on his 98.9 degree body and ate the ravioli looking very much like a T-Rex.
The cats ate my PB and J before I could muster the strength to take it off the paper plate.
When bedtime rolled around, I watched the girls brush their teeth as I propped myself up on the bathroom door. I kissed them each goodnight on their foreheads, tucked them in and turned the lights off. Brian hollered goodnight from the recliner, adding that he hoped to see them in the morning, if the fever didn't rob him of his eyesight.
I put a cold clothe on my forehead. Brian stood in the shower until the hot water ran out.
I coughed and peed my pants. Brian farted in his sleep.
I whimpered because the sheets were too cold. Brian whimpered because we only had a twelve-day supply of antihistamines.
The next morning, my hair was soaked with sweat because my fever had broken. Brian woke up with drool caked in the corners of his mouth and thought he had contracted rabies in the middle of the night.
I lay on the couch that afternoon dozing, allowing all the snot in my head to flow from one side to the other before painfully rolling over, grunting along the way. Brian slept in the recliner with the remote tucked between his head and his shoulder and Waterworld playing on TNT.
"Momma," Daughter 1 woke me up, "I'm going to make dinner for us tonight."
Ahhh ... my heart swelled (and not from fever). My baby girl was looking out for me. At least someone in this house was.
"But first, I'm going to rub Daddy's feet," she said, "He's not feeling well."
Next time I'm sick, I'm not even going to the doctor. I'm going to a Holiday Inn Express.