Him:  She has been under the weather for the past week or so. Probably a slight bout of the flue bug with a touch of diverticulitis. When she has these ailments she whines with all kinds of requests: “Make me a nice cup of coffee”, “Can you make me a nice hot cup of tea…I know I had coffee, but I want tea now”, “can you go over to Tedeschi’s for a pack of Twizzlers…oh, and a package of those caramels with that white stuff in the middle, “can you pick up a pack of cigarettes and some Vicks cough drops?” The list goes on. When I think I’m out of the woods she chimes in with, “can you run over to Stop & Shop and get a loaf of that five grain bread they have over in the produce section and when you get back can you toast me two slices, then put on some butter and serve it with hot chocolate and some of those DelMonte apricot halves?” I always know when she has thought of something else I can do for her because she begins the sentence with, “When you’re sick Dan, I take pretty good care of you, don’t I? Remember when you wanted corned beef hash with eggs on top and hash browns and beans on the side…I sure did make it for you, remember?” Actually, I think the last time I had that hash special it was at Persy’s…but nevertheless, I comply with her every request. I serve her a light breakfast in bed, I take care of the dogs, make dinner and return to the store for “a nice assortment” of candy. Because I can be sure what her favorite candy is from week-to-week, I grab everything that doesn’t have nuts; Milky Way, Mounds, M&M’s, Lindt Truffles, Three Musketeers, Kit Kats, Reese’s Peanut butter cups (I slip in the Reese’s because I love them). She lies there, like a Pasha, as I run my tail off in an attempt to make her feel comfortable. She can’t find the remote control for the television so she calls for me to change channels for her. As evening approaches she remembers that she is out of Advil PM and of course “I’ll never fall asleep without them. Do you want me to be up all night? You know what I can be like if I don’t get some sleep.” Yup, she’s got me there, going back out for the meds is a no brainer for me. When I get back she says, “You didn’t happen to think to get toilet paper did you, we’re out.” How would it just pop into my head to get toilet paper? I ask her why she didn’t mention it when I left. “I didn’t realize we were out until after you left and I used the last of it.” So, back out I go. I walk slowly down every store aisle looking to see if there might be something else that I should have “happened” to think of. When I get back she’s snoring away, probably the effect of the Advil. I look at her sleeping and wonder why she can’t be more like me when I’m sick. I make doctor’s appointments, take my medication, seldom miss work or an evening meeting…I get plenty of sleep, never complain and never burden her with requests; in short, I am the perfect patient.

Is this a woman’s thing? She strives to be such an independent woman, yet at the first sign of the sniffles she spirals back to girlhood, takes on the role of helplessness and looks for “her man” to take care of her…that would be me…and isn’t she the lucky one to have such a world class care giver at her side.   

HER:  If only it were true.
When he gets sick it’s as though a loud bell sounds in the house letting me know I’m on high-alert for the duration. Just as he finished his six week bout with the flu I got it from him, probably from picking up thousands of used Kleenex and cough drop wrappers from his side of the bed. When he’s sick, he doesn’t move or speak except to ask for things like breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, in-between time beverages and assistance changing channels. All of his little needs require preparation and exhausting trips upstairs carrying as much as possible at one time. Without fail, once I reach his bedside, he remembers just one more little thing, and then as I begin to descend the stairs, he calls out one other little thing that would make his joy complete. I really don’t know why I do it. The other day as he sat not three feet from the TV, he asked me to change the channel because his fingers were greasy from his pizza, and all this while a box of tissues sat at his elbow so he could wipe his fingers clean. I told him he really should hire a servant. I try to cut him some slack because he does work hard, but that’s getting old.

Fast forward to last Tuesday when I woke up with a sore throat so painful I had to cancel a long-standing commitment. Then came the flu symptoms, and when I thought I would go mad, there came the diverticulitis which is a painful thing to endure. He went into denial but agreed to get me some Advil. I also asked for Gas-X, but not the chewables because they don’t work as well as the caplets. He bought the chewables. I asked him for ingredients for chicken soup and he forgot the chicken.

While he was sick and I became sick, I had a freelance job I was working on that required me to read and review five books in 15 days in addition to trying to get the paper ready. This meant nothing to him because by his male reasoning, I like to read, ergo, this assignment was a piece of cake, and it might have been if I could have sat up and taken nourishment.
The other night as I was slumped over the dining room table having prepared dinner, he made some ridiculous request, and when I refused, he said, “You don’t love me”. With my teary eyes and a head full of mucus, not to mention my gut feeling like someone had set fire to it, I said, “Look me in the face and say that.” He laughed and said, “I can’t.”

Women I know all have the same complaint. When a husband is sick, you pray for all you’re worth that they’ll go back to being workaholics who are seldom home. I don’t need to join a gym. I travel the stairs a hundred times a day carrying the weights of meal trays, laundry, newspapers, his brief case, and whatever else he wants. Men think women are indestructible because we can endure anything. They, on the other hand, are sissies for whom pain and inconvenience are unthinkable. No matter their age, they pine for the ministrations of their loving mothers. God forgive me, but if I cooked like his mother, he’d be dead already.
My advice to sick men everywhere is “Take it like a woman”.