Sick at the Coop

I wish I could say The Rev. and I have been basking in the post-Easter glow that comes with the pronouncement of our Saviour's victory over Satan, death, hell, and other apocalyptic judgements, but we haven't. The Rev. has been battling another cold (a byproduct of teaching is a refillable prescription for Keflex, Amoxicillin, an other antibiotic goodies) and I have been under the weather a bit too.

There is nothing worse than a sick man. And I don't mean that in "awww, let's feel sorry for him" sort of way. I mean that in a "I don't feel well either, so quit complaing and MY WORD if you have to cough, aim the other way."sort of way. Call me cold-hearted, but as I was battling the chills and nausea on the bathroom floor, The Rev. was telling me how bad he felt.

The Rev.: "My head hurts. I can't breathe. My tastebuds are dead."

Me: "BLECHHHHHH" And this noise is amplified as it hits the proper receptacle.

The Rev.: "What are you doing? Wow, it stinks in here."

Me: "BLECHHHHHHH" Noise again amplified.

The Rev.: "I'm going to fix my breakfast now and then I'm leaving. Are you going to call in?"

Me: "BLECHHHHHHH"

We both felt better at the end of the day, but we were both still battling whatever toxin had decided to take up residence in our immune systems. The Rev. was snorting and sniffling again and REFUSING TO TAKE ANY MEDICATION. YOU WANT ME TO PET YOU AND FEEL SORRY FOR YOU AS YOU DROWN IN YOUR OWN MUCUS BUT YOU WON'T TAKE ANY MEDICINE. AND YOU HAVE TWO DEGREES AND YOU CAN READ GREEK, HEBREW, LATIN, GERMAN, AND SPANISH AND YOU CAN'T READ THE BOX OF ALKA-SELTZER??

I was beginning to enter the bliss that happens when you have taken about 8 times the recommended dosage of any medication just to make the pain stop so you can sleep and The Rev. says, "Well, at least Pookie (our dog's nickname) loves me."

What ensued was a discussion involving his decision to ignore his wife curled up on the bathroom floor covered with damp, clammy perspiration as he fixed his breakfast. I won't belabor the finer points of the discussion, but I basically told The Rev. that I could have used a little bit of sympathy because I was ready for Jesus to come and take me home. Or at least take my digestive system home. THIS IS THE RESPONSE I GET:

"Well, I told the dog you weren't feeling well."

"You told the dog."

"Yeah, didn't you hear me say, 'It looks like she's not feeling well, Dixie."

"You told the dog I wasn't feeling well."

"Yeah, basically."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must of missed that conversation because I was deafened by the echo of my stomach contents being hurled into a garbage can."

While we are having this conversation our dog is listening to every word and cocking her head from side to side like she understands us. I think she even rolled her eyes a few times.

And he tells me that I over-exaggerate and that I am too dramatic.