Both Bryan and I have fallen ill in the last couple of days.
I have a sinus infection—or, according to nearly every person I’ve encountered in the past 48 hours, both in person and over the phone—SWINE FLU. Yet, I don’t have a fever. I do not have have flu-like symptoms. I do have what could possibly could be my 74th sinus infection—at this point in the game, I think I can self-diagnose. Nevertheless, here’s a bit of the feedback I received at my event last night from people who would normally be quite kind:
“You sound awful.” (Hand covering mouth, backing up.) “Are you contagious?”
“Do you really think you should be shaking hands with elderly donors?” (Answer: Only if they have a signed bequest.)
And, my personal favorite:
“My wife and I promised to immediately quarantine ourselves in our basement should one of us exhibit anything that remotely resembles a cold. It could be…..SWINE FLU!”
My response of, “Or it could be a cold…sniff” was met with a rather hasty retreat.
I went home looking for some sympathy, only to find Bryan hunched over the toilet, where he has spent the last 21 hours. One of my many faults as a wife is my own lack of sympathy during Bryan’s illnesses. I am aware of this shortcoming, and I am trying to be better. So, despite my own malaise, I stayed up with Bryan, fetching him whatever he needed and only occasionally thinking about how he always gets sick at the most inopportune times.
I drug myself out of bed this morning, and I went to work. Before I left, I stressed how important it was for Bryan to stay hydrated, and I explained the BRAT diet yet again.
When I got back this afternoon, Bryan reported that he wasn’t able to keep anything in his stomach. I really, really tried to be kind and loving, but then he informed me of his only solid intake of the day: two fruit roll-ups.
Sympathy is overrated.
With at least 100 careers, a collection of Chanel suits and more pink patent leather shoes that I can imagine, Barbie turns 50 today.
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