In Sickness and In Health

My husband is on a business trip and I am sick. Until yesterday, I took for granted the gift of having someone else in the house while I am ill. I realize now I never had any appreciation whatsoever for the toast and tea my mother brought to me faithfully whenever I got sick as a child. Whether she brought the tray to my infested bedroom or to the living room couch upon which my sick self would alternately sprawl out or huddle, fetus-like, it always arrived right when I needed it. When matrimony transferred to my husband the role of primary caregiver, I instilled in him the importance of these toast and tea deliveries. He carried out his duties admirably. I was not so much grateful as satisfied.

This weekend he left for California and I came down with a laundry list of maladies best not described here. I almost vomited into The Boss's oatmeal as I spooned it as fast as I could into her birdlike mouth. Two day's worth of dishes are piled into the sink, where they will remain until I can look at the congealed spaghetti sauce without retching. Tasks that I was so eager to complete in The Partner's 3-day absence either never got started or are sitting in slovenly wait.

By yesterday evening, I could finally stomach the idea of eating something--a tiny something--and I yearned for toast and tea to arrive miraculously at my side. For a long time I just laid there, since standing up would inevitably cause a series of abdominal spasms that would leave me nauseated and doubled over. But my sad solitude won out, and I trudged to the kitchen to put an English muffin in the toaster and a mug of water in the microwave.

Back in the living room, The Boss was fixated on the same Baby Einstein DVD that had been playing on repeat for the past hour and a half. A foreign female recited the names of various animals as a result of the fact that I had programmed the DVD to play in French translation. It's something that I do each time in homage to The Boss's paternal ancestry. A little seal peeked out from an ice hole. "Le phoque," said the voice. This "phoque" sounded, for all the world, like my favorite American swear word. I giggled through another stomach cramp. I looked to see if The Boss had any reaction. She just stared at the screen.

Settling back into my hot indentation in the couch, I brought the mug to my lips and spilled a long dribble of tea onto my tee-shirt. I had no napkin, so I rubbed it in with a sigh. I was sick, sad, and lonely, and I couldn't keep anything in. "Le phoque," I said.