Or at least his school of thought when it comes to sickness at my house. Chris Rock, I hate you. In all fairness, I should be blaming my husband, but seriously, that is too easy and to be honest, it’s Chris Rock’s fault that I’m miserable when couch-ridden, delirious with the sweats and spewing awfulness from the mouth and nose.
Seriously, I blame Chris Rock for fucking with me every.time.I.get.sick. And it’s all because he had to go and do his little Tussin skit which apparently every man on EARTH subscribes to.
So, let’s go back to Monday, when I start to feel the sickness in the back of my throat. It’s scratchy and I start with the sniffles and I can feel the throbbing behind my eyeballs which (this time) has nothing to do with vino intake and so I am pissed. I am getting sick. I go to the store. Alone. I have to go alone if I want the medicine that I want. Otherwise, I am chased by my Mr. H with the same question he asks every time, “Are you going to get some Tussin?”
No. I never get Tussin unless I am coughing up piles of phlegm and it’s flourescent. I get dayquil and nightquil and lemon cough drops and some of that throat spray, depending on how badly I really want to swallow because that Sucrets spray is a friend of no one. And since I’m alone, I get them all with some soup and some tea and figure I’m good for the night.
I’m not on the couch one hour in my sweaty misery after work when he asks, “Did you take some Tussin?” I roll around and moan. I know his second attempt at medical advice is next. “Want some juice? You can have some and then go for a walk.” Like clockwork.
It’s 25 fucking degrees outside. I hate “walk it off” more than I hate “get some Tussin.” And what I hate more is what I know he’s going to whip out next, (wait for it)
“It’s too bad you don’t have a super immune system like I do. Must be from all those times you took that medicine. Tighten up, Heath. You should work on that.” Ohhhhhh, someone is A GODDAMNED COMEDIAN. He LOVES to talk about his immune system, sometimes I think in third person, like it is a goddamned superhero. I go to bed, refusing Tussin and feeling like a train hit me. I pray I don’t have man-flu pneumonia again.
Tuesday morning: He finds me in the spare room, surrounding by two waters, a juice, 93 cough drops and a year’s supply of used tissue.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks, pulling my covers off to inspect me. He is mesmerized by my beauty.
“You were snoring too loud and I couldn’t sleep and I’m dying.” He is not on the bed anymore. I hear him down the hall. No, wait. He is coming back. He sits on the bed again. I roll over to face him. Oh, jesus FUCK.
“Here. Be a good girl and take some Tussin.” Down the hatch he forces it. He smiles, proud of himself. “There, you should feel better.”
He calls three hours later from work.
“Did you take some Tussin?”
“How about you take the dogs for a walk?” I can barely stand without wanting to pass out. I am getting angry.
“Please stop calling me with your worthless advice.” We hang up.
He comes home from work. He alternates between singing, “You are my Sunshine” and “You’re my favorite girl” over and over again, just mocking, mocking, mocking. I haven’t showered now in two days and I am borderline death. I am going to punish him when I am well enough.
“Do you want some Tussin?” That’s it. I’m going to bed. I don’t leave bed for another 18 hours.
Until now. I am up today and out of the house. So. Since today I’m well enough to lift my head for longer than three minutes at a time, I thought I’d write about my never-ending battle with Tussin, Chris Rock and my husband’s *helpful ways.
*(I will note that when asked to rub my face/nasal area, my Mr. H complied on day 1 but on day 2 started charging me 2 euro/min for said sickness face massage. Ahhh, marriage.)