I am married to Barry White. Well, ok, he isn't quite Barry White, but when he is sick he has Barry's voice. "C'mere Baby." The poor guy is so sick all he can do is croak and I am rubbing up next to him saying, "Talk to me some more you sexy thing, you." Of course, then he gives me the hairy eyeball, thinking I have lost my mind.
Today J stayed home sick from work. He succumbed to what attacked me. He slept all day. Some men are such babies when they are sick. My friends' husbands are this way. They expect to be catered to, have to have the crusts cut off their bread (I kid you not!) and must be medicated within an inch of their lives in order to not be heard moaning piteously.
Mine is not this way. In fact, he tends to retire to the bed, pull the covers over his head, and the house could explode and he wouldn't notice. I want to do things for him, because I feel sorry for him when he is sick. He doesn't complain, and only once have I heard him moan, but that was because he was really, really physically ill. Eventually, he will emerge, the wounded bear making his way out of cave, and go through the motions of making tea or soup before I take pity upon him and take over the preparations.
We have a predator living in our house. (yes, I know that was a non-sequitur, I'm still sick, and couldn't think of a good segueway! It is large and black. It roams the halls while we are sleeping. It forces us, through sheer mind power, to feed it when it wants. It lumbers through the house, skulking in the shadows, pretending to be invisible, until we sit down. Then it suddenly will materialize out of thin air to take over the lap, that was just going to get up and do something important. It is all part of the nefarious plan of World Domination, I am pretty sure. Why do I tell you this?
Because, in addition to breaking my Internet, it would appear that said predator has finally managed to kill my poor, sick husband.
* this is not a staged photo, he really does sleep this way..