The other day when my friend C was late for a 9AM court due to her young son's sore throat (done only under duress, as the 9 AM court is only an hour and it's hard to get much doubles in an hour), I was reminded of a standard issue faced by women all over the world: the sick husband. Now, her son is only a child but she was effective enough at describing the syndrome of the level of moaning and complaining and sensitive treatment required when even a moderate illness takes down a Y chromosome to remind me of this age old dilemma. Aptly described in the vignette "man cold" which was hard to miss a few years ago as it made it's rounds on email and facebook (if you are not represented in one of the 4.5 million views on youtube here you go: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXLHWmjA5IE) I have suffered the collateral damage of the sick spouse many times. In the early days, probably before we were wed, i was sensitive and sweet - given that we live at times in one of those twin studies, I had the validation of being called the "nice wife" when it would freakishly occur that both my sweet husband and his identical twin brother came down the the "flu" at the same time . . . my florence nightengale approach in the early days involved trays with chilled OJ and hot tea, buttered cinnamon toast and fluffed pillows to make him comfortable. My sister-in-law, with a few more years of marital bliss and a baby under her belt, had a more pragmatic approach: seal off the germ infested moaning male member of the household, roll a frozen can of OJ under the door and tell him to come out when he's better. Children force us to become more survival oriented on many levels, but a full time working mother just doesn't have time to be sick or to stay home with sick children, so when the man/dad in her life goes down he must be quarantined. a true friend, my sister-in-law is also a teacher and I have adopted her approach as time has gone on - recently, when the vile stomach flu that started off with an email memo from dutiful school nurse H that had me trotting in to the children's room at 3 am with the special bedside puke bowl made it's way to my spouse, I simply provided a bottle of clorox and a new sponge, then sealed off the room with Saran wrap and tell him to disinfect when he's better and ready to re-join the family.
On occasion men do get truly ill as do we all. Four or so years ago, when my tiniest child was still a baby, we were due to go the the dominican republic for spring break. work was frenzied, so i had asked for the indulgence of staying "until it's done" a day or two before we were due to leave. at about 7:30 PM, just as I was getting into a groove and about to have a conference call with someone in asia, I received a call from home:
Honey, it's me
Who? the grunting hoarse voice on the line is hardly recognizable
Me. I think I might have appendicitis.
What? You were fine this morning, are you sure?
Well, I looked on web MD and it seems like it. I really don't feel well. I am so sorry but I think you need to come home.
Now, a normal person might be happy to get a get out of jail card in order to come home early from the office on a late night, but my sweet husband knows the brute force of "get things done mode" and that getting in the way of that is like trying to swim out of a rip tide, smart man that he is. But, he really didn't sound himself so I capitulated.
OK, I will get in a cab and come right home.
But not without sending the following email to the colleague in asia:
So sorry, but I am not going to be able to have our call at 8:30PM EST, my husband thinks he has appendicitis. Men.
I arrive at home and he's lying on the floor in the front hall attempting to give the 6 month old a bottle while the 5 1/2 year old is working to apply a cold compress to his stomach.
Have you called the Dr?
No, I just looked on line.
Call me an enabler if you like but I dialed the Dr. and handed him the phone. His end of the conversation was a series of "no" and "yes" answers completed with Uh. OK, yes, I guess so. Thanks.
Thank god, his sister lived nearby and was able to accompany him as the ER at 100th and madison isn't really a great outing for the whole family at 9PM. I waited at home and got periodic updates as to how many people in white coats had come in to examine him:
oooiiiiiaaahhhhhhhhouch.
In the aftermath it was determined by the sister's boyfriend that the janitorial staff of the hospital were passing the white coat around with the promise of a good laugh when you go give the guy in cubicle 7 a sharp jab to the guts.
Now the guy did have an appendix that was about to rupture and since this event to place in the aftermath of a certain NY governor having major issues in the wake of a botched appendectomy, it was decided that it was a good investment to send him to the concierge floor of the hospital to recover so as to reduce the chance of infection.
Oddly enough, the notion of the concierge floor has not permeated the maternity ward so in spite of the numerous times I had endured the "beauty of childbirth" in this hospital, I had never seen 11 WEST. I arrived early the next morning to make sure that my sweet husband was going to survive and amid the hubbub of the early morning rabble looking for directions to their dr/clinic/er/sick old auntie the moment I asked for "11 WEST" a hush falls over the crowd and I am whisked over to an express elevator to the 11th floor. Walking across an internal catwalk connecting the grubby old hospital building that houses the ER and maternity ward to the glass atrium containing 11 WEST, I see the back of a familiar blond head in one of the windows. Except it can't be, as this person is clad in a white terry cloth bathrobe reading a newspaper while sitting in a chippendale chair.
I enter the automatic doors and am caressed by cool air and the scent of white lilies. A unformed concierge behind a marble desk greets me and directs me to the room where my sweet husband is recovering. Other than a few emergency pull cords, I might as well be at the four seasons.
Entering the inner sanctum I help myself to a diet coke from the stocked mini bar and rounding the bend see my husband. He is sitting with the sports page and ESPN, a leather room service menu on his table and a bottle of vicodin before him.
the doctor thinks it would be a good idea to stay another night, you know, just to avoid any post surgical complications he murmurs.
I'll bet. Funny, just six months before when I had given birth, there was no stocked mini fridge, no menu, no lilies. Just a first time mother yacking away with the story of how she went in to labor and every detail that came after all the way until that very blissful moment with her little bundle of joy in her arms in my room while I was trying to sleep for a few last interrupted moments while the very capable nurses took care of my tiny infant in the nursery. I bet they don't even allow newborn babies in 11 WEST, they certainly wouldn't want to disturb all those men resting up from their surgeries and watching tv while buzzed on painkillers.
Now in a moment of sensitivity I will say that I am glad the whole thing unfolded as it did as the heli pad at casa de campo looked a little overgrown with weeds and the notion of getting to decent medicine from the domnican republic does send a little shudder down the spine.
but let me say, the next time I come down with a cold i know where to go for a little r&r.
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