Make An Adventure Out Of Being Sick
ONE DAY YOU GET OUT OF BED . . .
and without as much as a "look out, buddy," you are sick. Sick as a horse that has overeaten his share of green apples. How do you know that you are sick? These symptoms are dead give-aways:
Cannot stand on your own two feet
Breath is short
Panic attacks set in
You turn pale
You are sick alright. You are calling for your uncle "Jeb," with every breath. That is funny because you don't have an uncle "Jeb," so you manage to crawl to the living room to call your wife at her office. You have to stop, get your breath, for you haven't crawled since your last argument with her, so you finally remember where she works.
You dial her number. "Jacovie, Stuntsgarden, and Wyster," a sweet voice says. But it is not your misses. "May, I, uh, cough, cough, gasp, talk with . . .cough, cough, Ms. uh, gasp, Walkinstern?" you ask barely getting your breath.
"Hello. Hurry up. I am in a meeting!" your wife, "Julie," snaps for she has seen her caller i.d. telling her that it is you who is calling. "Julie, cough, cough, gasp, I need, uh, cough, you to, gasp, come, uh, take me to, gasp, gasp, cough, a doctor. Please?" you beg.
Then you hear the familiar sound of her laughter, the one thing that drew you to her when you two were in college. "Who is this? Is This Charlie in shipping?" she giggles. While you suffer. You see your life flash before your eyes. In 8 millimeter film. Your body and clothing is drenched with sweat. You feel faint. "Ju . . .lie, cough, it's me, Douglas! Help, cough, cough," you reply clutching your chest.
"Douglas, how many times have I told you to NOT call me at work . . .are you sick? Douglas, sweet pumpkin, mama will be right there...would you be a doll and find our life insurance policies for me when I get there?" sweet wife, Julie orders while you mindlessly meander about the living room--holding to anything that will not let you fall. Why does she want our life insurance policies, you think to yourself. Then you laugh like someone has told you an off-color joke. Awww, that Julie, she thinks that one of us may kick the bucket, you rationalize and then collapse in a kitchen chair--your chest heaving, sweat is now pouring on the floor, your hands tremble and you you feel the urge to go to the bathroom to let your bowels do their thing, but you are too weak. You can't get up. Oh well, you think. "Jules" as you call her, will be home soon. She will take you to the "john."
ALLOW ME TO SKIP AHEAD A FEW HOURS
"Margie," an attractive divorcee from next door, happens to hear you yelling like an injured moose in the forest and opens the kitchen door to find you drenched in sweat, pale, breath almost cutting off, and in need of a visit to the restroom. What a doll that Margie is. You have no choice but to let her take you to the bathroom to allow nature to do her thing with your bowels. Surely Julie won't be jealous of you with an extremely-attractive, blond divorcee, 34, with eyes that could stop a man's heart and a figure that would stop the five o'clock rush hour traffic in I-85 around Atlanta, Georgia. She is that pretty. But you cannot think about her great looks now, you have "business" to take care of and you do. What a great feeling to know that you 'made it just in time' for now you feel a tad relieved. But your insides are on fire. You are so nauseated that just the thought of food makes you grimace with pain. Man, you are the sickest you have ever been in your adult life.
Margie is busy turning back the covers on your king-size bed for you to lay down in when you are finished in the bathroom. You manage to yell with the velocity of a schoolgirl, "Uhhh, cough, Maaaar--g---(gasp)--gggii-ee, help, please," you say with all of your might. There she pops in with those icy-blue eyes looking at you in your disheveled state, but never shows any distasteful looks. Funny. Margie was never a nurse. Just good with sick people, you think, as you bumble and stumble your way to bed with Margie keeping you from falling. What a gal that Margie is. And what an exciting perfume she is wearing. But now the scent of her Chanel No. 5, gives your stomach the urge to vomit, but your male bravado allows you to hold it down. What a guy you are. You don't want Margie to know that you are a weakling.
OKAY. LET'S STOP RIGHT HERE. AND LOOK AT THE FACTS:
You are sick. Very sick.
You are now comfortable in bed--thanks to Margie.
You are settling down and not as sweaty as before.
Julie, your wife, is still not there.
But Margie is.
Right now, buddy, you are in trouble. And don't know it. Put yourself in Julie's place. You roll in. Walk to the bedroom and you know that her bloodhound sense of smell will detect Margie's Chanel No. 5, and when she sees you in bed, with caring Margie standing over you dressed in those controversial short-shorts, heels, and halter top, you, not Margie, will be in deeper trouble. It's an innocent scene, man. I know you are innocent. Margie knows that you are innocent. Even God knows you are innocent. But still Julie's suspicious mind (Elvis Presley ) will come up with you having an affair while she is at work. Nothing short of a DNA test will save yo and Margie now.
BE SMART. HERE IS WHAT YOU NEED TO DO . . .NOW
Send Margie, the darling, home at once. It will be bad enough for Julie to smell her perfume, but with Margie being gone, she might not be as angry. So Margie blows you a kiss, winks at you, and glides out of the kitchen door, the back way, great! You are in business.
Then you hear the unmistakable sound of Julie slamming the front door--mumbling, cursing, as she stamps to the bedroom. "Wha . . .t, is, uh, this? You are sick?" Julie says with a tone of surprise in her voice. And you would have sworn you saw the hint of a lone tear in her right eye. "Yes, I am sick....(LONG, DEEP COUGH HERE), and I need help, Julie! I am so sorry, (MORE DEEP COUGHING) I wish I hadn't called you . . . gasp, cough, but I had...no, no...cho--ice!" you struggle to say to an amazed Julie who is now sitting on the edge of the bed.
OKAY. JULIE IS NOT ANGRY. HERE IS WHAT YOU DO. NOW
- Start ENJOYING this sickbed adventure. You heard me right. Sickbed adventure. When was the last time that Julie waited on you? Well, that doesn't matter now because you my taken-for-granted buddy, verbally-abused working man who always puts his wife first. It is YOUR turn to grab a few days of pure delight, if you follow my lead.
- YOU NOW . . ."act" angry because, as you say to Julie, "That Margie! What a busy body. Came running in here like she lives here--insisted that she help me to bed...when have I ever needed help to get to bed?" you say with your face red with anger. Julie tries to conceal her female gloating for YOU chose to NOT go after Margie, and says, "Hey, now. You cannot get angry. What do you need for me to do for YOU? I am off until Monday!" Julie says those magic words that you have longed to hear for years--What can I get for YOU? And it is ONLY TUESDAY!
- You think, then barely speak, " A good, cold drink, but I can get it . . ." you say "acting" like you can get out of bed.
Julie lovingly-scolds you and tells you to stay put. See how my advice is working for you? Don't feel guilty. When Julie was sick last year, who was it that stayed off of work to nurse her back to health? YOU! So lay back, and take advantage of this situation...but be advised. DO NOT OVERDO THE PERKS OR JULIE WILL GET SUSPICIOUS, SO BE MODERATE ABOUT WHAT SHE CAN GET FOR YOU.
I would say to keep this up until, say, Wednesday night. Then really pour it on with yells, screams and say stuff like, "I know I am going to Heaven..bye, everyone," and Julie, being a sharp-thinking woman, will get on the phone and take you, guess where? To the upgraded, modern in every way, area hospital where you will receive EVEN MORE care that you would at home. Now listen to me. You have to really 'act' as good as Marlon Brando in your 'resentment' to being taken to really, a medical facility that rivals any Holiday Inn Express with it's large, comfy rooms, digital television, great food, and those pretty nurses, man on man, you can get great care from tonight, Wednesday night, until Sunday evening. You cannot afford to miss the Sunday NFL on CBS, can you?
As you enter your huge, comfy, soundproof room, you sigh with approval, but you quickly "act" irate as you are stripped of your street clothes and put into a comfy gown that you can lay around in for days. I said days, mister. Julie looks tired. And the thing for you do to now is to say this, "Julie, honey. Go on back home. You need some rest. And there is nothing you can do for now. You can come by tomorrow on your lunch hour, if you like. Okay?" Julie almost cries as your selfless attitude. She kisses you on your forehead, not your lips, as the young night nurse looks at her like an irritated cat. And you are old enough to be her dad. The nurse, not Julie.
HERE IS WHAT YOU CAN EXPECT NOW UNTIL SUNDAY EVENING:
- 1. GREAT FOOD. I MEAN THE FOOD THAT MAKES YOU THINK OF RUBY TUESDAY'S.
- PLENTY OF DIGITAL TELEVISION WITH "YOUR" SPORTS SHOWS: ESPN, ESPN2, ESPNU AND FOOTBALL GALORE. YOU ARE IN HEAVEN, BUDDY.
- PLENTY OF ATTENTION FROM THE PRETTY NURSES WHO ARE SWORN TO LOOK IN ON YOU, TAKE YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE, VITAL SIGNS ALL THE WHILE LOOKING AT YOU WITH THEIR YOUNG, DEEP BROWN EYES.
- SPONGE BATHS--FROM THE SAME YOUNG, PRETTY NURSES. A MAN HAS TO BE CLEAN EVEN IN THE HOSPITAL. AND IT'S FUNNY. AT HOME, JULIE HAS TO THREATEN YOUR LIFE BEFORE YOU WILL TAKE A SHOWER.
- USE OF TELEPHONE. CALL YOUR WORKPLACE. CHAT WITH BUDDIES ABOUT THE GAMES, HAVE A GREAT TIME.
- ORDER MOVIES FOR THE DIGITAL TV. WHY NOT? YOUR INSURANCE IS FOOTING THE BILL.
- READ WHATEVER YOU LIKE--NEWSPAPERS, COMIC BOOKS, MAYBE A PLAYBOY IF JULIE DOESN'T WALK IN.
Then your doctor walks into your room--smiling and writing notes on his official hospital-approved clipboard with his gold Cross pen. "What's the verdict, doc?" you ask in a semi-positive tone, but not too positive.
"Well, my friend. You have been attacked by food poisoning. That's right. And I feel that we have got to keep you at least 10 MORE DAYS to see if we cannot get that nasty germ out of you," the smiling doctor explains. Shakes your hand. And leaves.
Then you are left alone with your thoughts. Food poisoning, where did, oh yeah, the last thing I ate was Julie's meatloaf. That was it. That's where this junk came from but . . .like the doctor said....10 MORE DAYS . . .what a lucky break...more of this fine treatment, attention . . .
"Knock, knock," Julie says laughingly as she opens the door to your hospital room. "Got my man some "real" food. You know how bad that hospital food is, dear?"
"What is that, Julie, some, take-out from Ruby Tuesday's?" you 'act' weak as you reply.
Julie smiles like a guilty cat that has been into the margarine in the door of the refrigerator and then says . . .
"No, you silly man! I said REAL food! I brought you some more of my yummy MEATLOAF!"
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