Shut Up & Take Your Medicine!

 

 

    It’s official - I have what is commonly known in medical circles as the crud.

     I’m sneezing, I’m stopped up, and I’m coughing like an old Buick trying to start on a cold winter morning. I feel like a sucked dry orange, and my voice is so raspy it sounds like an adolescent teenager.  Naturally, when my wife heard me blow my nose for the first time, she insisted that I march right down to a Doc in a Box. I know what she’s up to, and it’s not because she’s concerned for my health. Oh no. Instead, she’s worried about her own well-being.  Because, according to her, I am one of the worst patients on earth, which means her misery will be worse than my illness.  

     And unfortunately for both of us, she’s right. When I’m sick, I cannot suffer silently - not even close.  I whine, complain, and moan like a ghost in a haunted house. I’ve been known to say, “Tell the kids I love them,” when I have a head cold. Society has a word for patients like me - they’re called men. 

    It’s true, I can accept it.  And maybe it’s cultural. Over the years men have been taught to be strong and tough, unbothered and stoic. So when we feel lousy, we have never had practice expressing it properly.  That means we can go from saying, “I’m fine,” to saying, “Please make sure my affairs are in order,” faster than you can hand us a Tylenol.  

    Men generally wait to seek medical attention unless a bone is showing, or they think their time on earth is ending.  So, when they finally admit they are sick, they’re not only  miserable, but their  symptoms are severe, which means they’ve already tortured their spouses for several days. 

    On the other hand, women power through most colds and headaches. They handle jobs, kids, schedules, and tasks while feeling bad. So, it should come as no surprise they get irritated when their husband whispers, “I think this might be pneumonia.”

    Because she has dealt with my sicknesses and the accompanying  theatrics for a while, my wife has the sympathy of a drill sergeant.  However, I thought things might be different when I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. This is certainly not a head cold; I have had two surgeries, and still face a radiation treatment. Surely, I thought, a little compassion was coming my way. 

    If I am being completely honest though, I might have tried to take advantage of the situation.  A couple of days after I got  home from the hospital, when she asked me to do a little chore, I curled my hand into the shape of a “C”.   “What’s that mean?,” she asked. “It stands for The  Big C, cancer,” I replied dramatically.  “I do have cancer, you know.”  Amazingly, this tactic actually worked - for about four days. Then the enchantment of its magic  wore off. One evening when she told me to take out the trash, I flashed The Big C sign.  She rolled her eyes and said firmly, “I don’t care if you have cancer or the mange, go take out the garbage.” 

Then she flashed me with a hand side of her own. I can’t tell you what it was, but let’s just say this it wasn’t in the medical books.  And when I asked her if her sign stood for something, she said, ”Yes. It means stop your whining. Now, shut up and take your medicine.”

That’s when I knew my “Get Out Of Chores For Free” card been permanently revoked.