The Bloke of the House was ill. So ill in fact, that he needed time off work and had to go to the doctor for proper drugs and everything. BUT he has been telling anyone who will listen to him that he had to get a doctors certificate not so much for the work, but to prove to The Missus – ie ME that he was sick.
Apparently, I’m not very sympathetic.
And actually, that would be true. There’s a reason why I didn’t take up nursing as a career – empathy bypass.
The Bloke started off with ”a bit of a cold”, as Blokes do, but by the end of the weekend, it had developed into a fully blown case of the dreaded Man Flu. The moans and the groans – you would have thought he was at deaths door from the carry on. There was a scene on Modern Family where Phil hurts his back and screams “it’s the cancer” when he tries to get out of bed. That’s what it’s like at my house when there’s Man illness.
The Children are generally blessed with a disgusting level of good health (which is a good thing – they’re children. I have to be nice to them if they’re actually sick). Personally, I blame their ridiculously good health on my lack of interest in cleaning, coupled with my strict adherence to the three-t0-five second rule (and occasionally the ‘oh, where on earth did you find that? Are you sure…oh ok, you’ve already eaten half of it’ rule) and the rest on their exposure to just about every kiddie germ known to mankind thanks to swimming lessons and child care. I have a tendency to ignore anything that doesn’t involve excess bodily fluids, blood and/or bones poking through the skin…(and all of those can be treated with a bucket, a cold flannel and a bandaid – or any combination of the three)…oh, and weird rashes – they warrant some level of attention, too.
Of course, being that the Children are boys, there is still plenty of The Melodrama . Cries of “he punched me, mum” and man, you reckon the Italian soccer team know how to stage a fall… NOBODY can stage a fall quite like a seven year old boy. And any child that can fully demonstrate (two or three times) the fall caused by a teensy little punch on the arm is erm definitely NOT hurt and can therefore get up, stop whingeing about it and either play nicely together or GET OUTSIDE.
But The Bloke is right – I am definitely NOT very sympathetic about other people’s illnesses. I am less than impressed when Other People feel the need to come into work dragging along their snot-filled carcasses and moaning pitifully into sodden hankies about how miserable they feel. STAY AT HOME. Please.
I’m even not very sympathetic to myself when I am ill. Being sick is a terrible inconvenience and can best be done well without thank you very much, and time spent moaning in bed can be spent doing many other things thank you very much. Broken hand – pass the ibuprofen and panadol thanks. Abdominal surgery…what do you mean I can’t be pushing a shopping trolley around the supermarket? That’s why the nice doctor gave me the good drugs, isn’t it? Cold, runny nose? That’s why Codral was invented. Soldier on, thank you very much.
The Bloke recovered from the Man Flu (as Blokes do) and I didn’t get it. Not even a sniffle.
I might be unsympathetic, but hey, I am tough. Toughened Up, Princess!
