I Have A Death Rattle & Hubs Makes A Poster

I have a summer cold and Hubs is plastering signs on the refrigerator to remind me when my next dose of non-narcotic, non-drowsy cold medicine is due, like I’m a senior citizen with Alzheimer’s, or a crack whore with no sense of time.


I don’t really feel bad. Well, okay. I feel bad, but not that bad. I mean, I’ve had three c-sections, three other major abdominal surgeries, a couple of laparoscopic surgeries, and a kidney stone that got stuck; and then there is that darn vertebrae in my back that keeps protruding; so in relative terms, no, I don’t really feel that bad. This is just a summer cold. I’m just tired. AND BITCHY.

Because Hubs has gone all Florence Nightingale on me, and he is hovering.

Nic, my seventeen year old son, is laughing at me when I cough; he says my cough sounds like a death rattle. Ahh, that’s my boy. At least there is one normal person in the house.

Admittedly, I sound like crap, and when I get sick, which isn’t often, it usually involves a hospital trip, surgery, and organ loss. So in a few fleeting minutes of rationality, I can understand Hub’s concerns. But mostly, right now, I’m living in bitch-mode; because I want to be left alone, and not smothered and hovered over.

And does he have to use a King Size Sharpie to track my dosage of non-narcotic, non-drowsy Tylenol Cold, on the back of an envelope, and then post it on the refrigerator with a “My Mom Is Special Magnet?” And does he have to date it? Like I’m going to be sick for days, and he’ll have to show the ambulance driver a medication log or something.

Hey Florence, I just took two Advil. And it’s a new day. Keep up!


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