I swear, Frank and I have been passing around the same stupid cold for a month and a half and it has got to stop. I don't know whether it's just mutating enough each time to be re-infectious, or if we're picking up new diseases from coming in contact with the biological cesspool that is every surface in New York, but I'm tired of being sick.
As soon as one of us recovers a little bit, the other one gets all sick again. The sympathy and "Oh poor sweetie can I bring you anything on my way home from work?" has given way to "God, you're sick again? Don't breathe on me."
Right now we're in a Frank cycle. I was home last Monday and Tuesday, and it was a nasty critter, so I knew he'd be getting it for the holiday weekend. Which extra sucks. I spent last night on the couch--which is almost exactly 2/3 the size I am, so therefore ever so comfortable--because his snoring was so loud that even with ear plugs in, the vibrations kept waking me up. I mean, it was gross. Like loooong, deep breaths accompanied all the way by a horrible wet rattling. Even the cats couldn't take it. I woke up at 5 a.m. with both of them nestled into the little couch with me.
The frustrating part is there's nothing that really can be done about it. It's not like I’ve got an infection or anything, just a series of kind of crappy end-of-winter colds. Emergen-C and Echinacea and whatever other overpriced placebo garbage they're selling these days is pretty much all we've got.
It's funny, being sick--sort of like a birthday or a wedding. You're nice to the other person because you love them and care about their welfare, of course, but also because you know that someday you'll be sick and sad and helpless, and you'll need them to wait on you hand and foot.
With such tight cycles of illness and wellness, the quid pro quo nature of nursing is becoming increasingly naked in our house. "I made you a grilled cheese sandwich last week when you were sick," or "You went out with your friends the other day when I was stuck at home drinking tea." Honestly it's starting to get a little bit ugly.
At least part of that has to do with how weird and awful and out of the normal flow of time ailing makes a person feel. Two days at home seems like an eternity of suffering, so even though it's only been six weeks, it feels like forever. If we can't both get back to productive healthfulness soon, we're literally going to have to set up some sort of standardized rate of favor exchange, which will become even more complicated when we both get fired for missing too many days of work.
The good news is I've finally weaned myself off of Day-quil for what I hope is the last time. The hot weather is here and I know I've already had what Frank's got, so I'm really really hoping that this is the end of it. The though of spending my summer inside with a mound of tissues, particularly in light of the fact that we don't have central air, is not pleasant. Nor is the idea of spending many more nights folded into that couch with two warm little fur balls. I don't want to jinx anything, but I remain optimistic that this is the last round of it. Mostly because the only other alternative at this point is murder/suicide. J/k. Sort of.