When I am sick, I consider myself to be a model patient. Apparently I am the only one who feels this way. This became abundantly clear to me when I recently had a severe head cold that I just could not shake.
When I have a cold, all I want is to be left alone so I can self-medicate and sleep it off. I have a sure-fire cure for the common cold that I learned from my favorite Aunt: I take 2 Benadryl and wash them down with a huge glass of orange juice and vodka. Eighteen hours later when I wake from my coma I am generally as good as new. My Aunt swore by this remedy, generally on a daily basis, and she never had a cold right up until she died of cirrhosis.
This time around, my Aunt’s cure was not working and my cold was escalating. I tried to function with as little human interaction as possible, but that is not possible in my family. For starters, I work with my older sister, my partner and my cousin. My younger brother sends text messages as easily as he breathes. With my entire family hovering like helicopters, my desire to be left alone to suffer in silence was a non-starter.
At work I was lethargic and wheezy, so my sister recommended that I go home and go to bed. My cousin offered Kleenex. My partner followed me around with a thermometer. All three kept checking on my comfort, which makes me profoundly uncomfortable.
Then, my cousin asked if I wanted some tea. I hate tea, but I politely said, “No thank you.” Two minutes later when she asked I said, “Thank you, no.” This was followed by a firm, “No. Thank you,” which escalated into, “What part of “no” don’t you understand?” She got a hurt look on her face and walked into my sister’s office. “He’s really short-tempered when he’s sick,” I heard her say, which made me feel even worse.
My sister immediately came to visit. “You’re cwabby when you don’t feel good,” she said in baby talk, putting her hand against my forehead, which annoyed me. “You should go home and take a widdle nap.” Through clenched teeth I said, “I’m fine,” a falsehood so obvious that even my sister could not think of a platitude.
I finally went home just so I could be alone. I lay down on the bed and immediately got a message from my brother. “Are you OK?” he texted. “I’m fine,” I responded. Five minutes later he texted again: “Feeling better?” This was followed immediately by, “Any relief yet?” and then, “How are you NOW?” Resisting the urge to flush the phone down the toilet I turned it off and actually napped. I opened one eye to find that all 3 cats and the dog were on the bed staring at me with concern. I felt like I was at a wake. My own.
Eventually I went to the doctor who diagnosed an upper respiratory infection and prescribed anti-inflammatory steroids. “These meds may make you short tempered,” she warned. I stared at her bleakly for a moment; if anything were needed to complete my already exquisite charm, this was probably not it.
But after I took my first dose, it dawned on me that this was perfect. I now had a medically legitimate reason to be surly and testy, conditions for which most middle-aged men have no excuse. I washed the first dose down with a huge glass of vodka and orange juice and slept for 16 hours. Silent and sleeping, I was a model patient.