Journal from the Edge of Survival: In Which We Worry

Charlie is a manochondriac.

You know the type. They get a mild cold and they take to their beds and lament the fact that their mother isn’t there to spoon feed them warm, home-made chicken soup and spread Vicks on their chests and sing soothing lullabies to them…

(although you know damned well their mother never did anything of the kind when they were little. You know, because you’ve asked her. And she laughed her ass off. But when they’re man-sick, they’re convinced that was the truth of their childhood).

…When we fail to provide these services, we clearly don’t love them very much. No scenery-chewing, ham-acting, emoting-like-there’s-no-tomorrow performer playing Ophelia could possibly compete with a manochondriac in the hand-to-head-swoon-of-death department.

I know I sound kind of sexist here.  And I am sure there are folks of all genders who love to be drama kings and queens (and gender neutral monarchs) when they fall ill. But for my purposes, I’m sticking with the HE pronoun. Plus, if the man wants to pretend to BE Archie Bunker, I’ma gonna talk about him like he’s Archie Bunker.

I’ve heard Charlie proclaim to every person who might give him phone sympathy that he has “the flu” every time a sniffle wends its way to his handsomely chiseled nose. I always shout out “It’s A COLD! WHEN YOU HAVE THE FLU, YOU’LL KNOW IT!”

 The ONE TIME he actually had the flu, I stood over his bed and said “THIS is the flu. See?” I was sure that from then on out he’d never have the audacity to call a sniffle the flu again. Now he KNEW the suffering. He knew the agony. He knew what sick really was. Right?

Wrong. He still say he has the flu if he wakes up with an achy back. Sigh.

Except…

He works for a company that services, on the periphery, an industry that has been declared vital. His company has decided to use this iffy designation to its full advantage. Charlie was required to spend the first three days of this week at an off-site third party lab.

Lab. You think “clean,” right? Wrong. Not all labs are cleanrooms. This one sure as hell isn’t. And the first time Charlie walked in he was shocked to see how incredibly lax the entire operation was about safety measures. So he kept himself gloved and masked and washed his hands until they chapped. And when he got home, he took off his shoes outside, stripped naked in the foyer, and put all of his belongings into a plastic bag with a paper towel soaked in alcohol. He threw his clothes into the laundry on hot and threw himself into a shower on hotter. I would wash down the doorknobs and anything else he touched. When this procedure was over, we breathed a little easier, and hoped that once again we’d escaped the consequences of other people’s stupidity and greed.

Until…

Charlie’s voice went really wonky last night. Like a frog had jumped in there believing it was the correct location for its American Idol audition.

“A little pitchy” says my inner vocal judge. “But great enthusiasm. Don’t give up on your dreams.“

He normally runs a temperature way below normal. This morning it’s above normal.

I know that doesn’t mean anything. But nothing means anything when Kafka is your personal world creator. So shut up with your non-worrying self. I do what I want.

He aches a lot and keeps clearing his throat as if to forcefully expel the aforementioned stubborn frog. And even more worrisome, his face looks like someone getting ready to participate in a Michael Jackson Thriller video recreation.

Worst of all, he’s not being a manochondriac at all. He didn’t go into the lab this morning, but he did log in from home and is participating in work videos. No whining. No complaining. No declarations of impending death. No requests for soup, hand-spooned or otherwise.

Frankly, I find this scary as fuck.

There are two voices currently at war in my head. The first is telling me “Calm the fuck down. You’re always a panickmonkey. This is probably nothing. Take a valium. And have some vodka. Valium and vodka are the breakfast of champions. You’ll all be FINE.” The second voice says “What the fuck are you talking about? There’s a global PANDEMIC. People are dying! Take this seriously. Be serious for once in your flippant, immature life. Worry like a boss, lady.”

I just want them both to shut up. Except the vodka/valium idea. I think that’s some wise advice.

At one point, he got up, donned gloves, sterilized the master bathroom, and declared that bathroom for my use only. Calmly. Without any extra statements or dramatic flourishes. Just quietly doing that. He’s also sterilizing the kitchen and other places he’s been using frequently.

Just… so fucking quietly.

Maybe he has a small cold, which is also running around…

(showing how fucking ineffective sheltering in place has been. Yeah, let’s loosen those restrictions! It’s all working so fucking well! Gah I hate everyone).

Maybe.

We won’t know for sure because tests are absolutely unavailable in my area unless you are dying, already dead, or working as an emergency responder. Frankly, I think that any company that wants to declare itself an essential service should be required to have weekly testing made available for all employees. But who am I to throw logic in the face of greed?

Besides, I guess you can’t mandate what doesn’t exist. My delusional powers of godhood seem bafflingly unable to alter actual reality. This pisses me off to no end.

All we can do is wait and watch. And hopefully by next week I can go back to mocking my poor, abused, misunderstood, wonderful, amazing, and truly beloved husband. Because next week is his mandatory unpaid week off this month and all I want to worry about is figuring out how to entertain an idle 63-year-old toddler. That’s all I want to worry about. I want to tease this man and mock him in a blog and brush down the spike-worries in his hair and I will even promise to spoon-feed him chicken soup every time he sneezes as long as he is around and healthy next week.  I want nothing else to pierce this beautiful bubble of safe ignorance we have created. I have spoken. My god-powers better be working this time.

 

I demand survival. I will accept nothing less.

 

 

 

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