SICK – DAY 1
Today, I awakened to find Jackie Gleason sitting on my chest. Well, in my mind that’s what was happening. I could not breathe. I could not breathe! I’m an asthmatic and that spells danger-danger. I asked Nancy to get my inhaler, stat. I swear to you, he hesitated. He did! Finally, he gave it to me and said:” Deep breaths! Deep breaths.” My ears were blocked along with my throat, my nose and my ability to love and I screamed back: “I don’t have breasts! You know that!” He rolled his eyes and went to Fox Hill, leaving me gasping and spewing in bed. I am 100 percent certain I have tuberculosis.
SICK – DAY 2
I feel so much worse today! Nancy slept on the couch because if he got this sick during golf season, well, let’s just say life would not be worth living. Idiot. I am mainlining Nyquil like it’s Gray Goose and it sort of is. That stuff packs a punch! I love it, but only because slipping in to a medicated coma is far better than wheezing and clutching my chest dramatically, with proclamations of near death and specifics of what to engrave on my urn. Remember, I want it to read: “Does this urn make me look fat?” Somebody take care of that because you know Nancy will be golfing before, during and after my expiration. At any rate, I am 100 percent certain I have whooping cough.
SICK – DAY 3
I am bored and sick and miserable and hungry but cannot swallow. I begged Nancy to run to Agolino’s for soup. His response: “How about chicken wing pizza, instead?” I hate him. I cannot wait until I lick his face and he catches this. Yes. I am that spiteful. I blew my nose and saw a species I was unaware could live inside of me. I coughed-up an entire Third-World village. I am grotesque. I am 100 percent certain I have Black Lung.
SICK- DAY 4
No improvement and do you know what I’m thinking about the entire time I am bent over and spitting up? I’m wondering just how much weight I lost. Surely a steady diet of tea and broth will translate into pounds lost, right?! No. No it did not. I hate that *&%^$# scale. How is that possible? I may as well have the sundae. Awful, dreadful things are being expelled from every orifice and I am 100 percent certain I have pleurisy.
SICK – DAY 5
Thank God there’s a Golden Girls marathon on TV right now because I’m sure I’m about to kick it. Nancy is not waiting on me hand and foot, primarily because I don’t have a golf tee on top of my head but I’m prettttyyy sure I can fit one up his @##. He is so NOT an excellent caregiver! Plus, I suspect he hid my inhaler. The doctor says there is nothing to do for this awful plague. I just need fluids and rest. I’m thinking he meant: “Stop calling my office and telling my nurse your phlegm is the color of a banana skin. She doesn’t get paid enough.” 100 percent certain I have Hoof & Mouth Disease.
SICK – DAY 6
I will never be well again. I am 100 percent sure I have malaria. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, save yourself. Wash your hands after you read this. Nancy is measuring the living room to install an iron lung. Joke’s on him. I licked his toothbrush and every golf ball in his bag. No one deserved it more. Stay well, peeps. Stay well.
