Man, Jr., Cold

Mr. C has been sick since Wednesday.  It’s probably my Karmatic curse, as I’ve always made such a big deal over how well he reacts when ill and how quickly he gets over it.

Not so much this time.

This time, it has been a lingering illness that is just putting us all on edge.  We’re lucky that Mr. C isn’t exuding liquids from both ends of his body, so it really wouldn’t be that bad of a malady . . . were it not for the coughing.  He’s had one of those deep, hacking coughs that clearly kills his throat each time he does so, which only serves to piss him off, which makes him run around in circles crying, which causes him to cough more.  And maybe spit up just a little, for good measure.  Then he piteously howls, “I’m sick!” or “I’m sad because I’m sick!”

And, after days of this, I’m evilly unsympathetic.

Maybe I’d return to caring more if there was something I could do.  But there’s nothing.  We took him to the doctor a few days into it and were prescribed amoxicillin and suggested half a dose of cough medicine.  We’ve been faithfully administering both, but there’s just nothing we can do to immediately soothe him.  I have been using the placebos of a cool washcloth for his head/stomach and a spoonful of honey for his throat; mentally, these help, but only for a little.

He’s spent the last four nights coughing every forty-five minutes, which means Bee and I haven’t slept in four days.  It’s like having a frickin’ newborn all over again!  I get tense as evening approaches, dreading the night ahead, feeling the stress and helplessness that I felt as a new mother. 

After a round of coughing, he settles down a little faster if we’re right there with him, so I spent half of the first two nights in his converted-crib with him, and half the third on the couch downstairs.  Bee, for his shifts, dutifully (though grumpily, may I point out) tried sleeping on the converter-crib and the couch, but usually ended up bringing Mr. C into our bed.  Which means I wouldn’t have gotten any sleep all night, had I not been so exhausted by that point that it was actually quite easy to return to a state of unconsciousness following a bout of Mr. C’s coughing.

Mr. C is getting better, but now – naturally – Bee and I are getting sick.  It was inevitable: there was just no way to protect ourselves from germs when our sick child slept best cuddled close to us.  To tell you the truth, I was kind of looking forward to being ill: I wanted the excuse to hide up in my room and watch movies all day by myself.  Also, judging by Mr. C’s decreased appetite, I was going to lose a few pounds.

Of course, I don’t think things are going to play out that way, since Bee is getting sick at the same time.  That means two things:

1)  No matter how sick I am, Bee will always be sicker.  I don’t know if he physically will be or just mentally will be, but it really won’t matter.  The truly perverse part of it is that – even though I’ll resent it – I’ll also assume he’s worse-off.  Perhaps because I know how strong I am, I assume he’s less-so?  Take our last mutual illness, for example: despite the fact that I was up all night puking out my guts, we felt worse for him because he didn’t get the relief of vomiting.  Now, mind you, had the roles been reversed, I’m sure we would have felt terrible for him having to endure bouts of gagging for thirty-six hours whilst I just clutched my belly in pain.

2)  No matter how sick I am, if Bee is also sick then it falls on me to do the majority of Mr. C-care.  It’s a very odd, rather unsettling 1950’s-thing that inevitably happens to our relationship when illness strikes, and I’m not sure why. 

I think Bee is a fantastic father: very involved with his kids and – for the most part – equally-vested in any kid duties, from diaper to dinnertime.  But something happens when we’re both sick, and he suddenly seems to expect me to take care of the toddler more than he does. 

Take last night, for instance: I dragged my ass out of bed at 1:21 and then again at 3:05 to attend to Mr. C.  At 3:11, when –exhausted and barely-functional – I flopped back into bed, I mumbled to Bee that I’d left some honey for Mr. C by his bedside (which, I’m sure dentists would agree, is a great middle-of-the-night snack), should Bee need it in the upcoming hours.  To which Bee, with alarming clarity for one who claimed to be so beat, immediately snapped, “Why are you assuming I’ll be taking care of him?  I’m just as tired as you; I really need to sleep.”  Exactly: you’re just as tired as me, asshole.

            I tend not to fight him too much at the time of these outbursts, perhaps because of #1 above, and perhaps because I realize that we’d just get into a full-blown brawl at 3:30 in the morning – which means there’d be so much ill-will in the air that neither of us would go back to sleep.  Which – sadistically – would sort of satisfy me; but, ultimately, I’d realize how unhelpful that would be.  As such, I don’t (usually) argue with Bee at these moments; passive-aggressively, however, I’ll simply ignore Mr. C’s next cries (at 4:12) and wait for Bee to give up and huff off to care for him.

Bee is aching and I’m powering through a slight case of dizziness.  On the bright side, Mr. C is definitely on the mend, napping for two hours this afternoon and requesting that we make cookies this evening.  Of course, he wanted to be in charge of the sprinkles:

I am proud to announce that he is finally learning to cough into his arm.  I am sorry to report that this talent, apparently, is forgotten whilst baking.  However, I am relieved to state that no one but Mr. C will be eating those cookies.

Well, almost no one.  Despite the fact that I ate no dinner and truly need healthful nourishment to keep me from falling ill, I still felt the compulsion to shove five of those sugary meringues into my gullet as soon as they came out of the oven.

I just don’t learn.