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April 14, 2006
Real Men Don’t Get Sick
Just ask Mr. Tall
Battle of the Sexes week may be over here at the L.C. (see how I worked that in, Whitney? “The L.C.” You like?), but it rages on unabated at our house. Last Saturday, Mr. Tall and I went out with some friends, and I thought we all had a lovely time until six hours later when, upon our return to the house, Mr. Tall remarked, “You know, my stomach has been bothering me all night” and proceeded to puke his guts out.
You can easily imagine my reaction: Shock! Dismay! Cries of “Why didn’t you SAY something, for the love of all that is good and holy?!?”
“You were having a good time and I didn’t want to ruin the night,” Mr. Tall said. “Besides, it’s not a big deal. Just a touch of food poisoning or something.”
“Food poisoning.” That is Mr. Tall’s catchall for physical ailments. That and “allergies.” He could be drenching the sheets with sweat, hallucinating plaid dinosaurs, and vomiting vile green slime the likes of which has not been seen since “Ghostbusters”, and he will claim it’s just allergies.
He refuses to admit he’s sick. It’s a guy thing.
True story: the first month we lived in Arizona, Mr. Tall came down with the flu (oh sorry, I mean “allergies”). He soldiered on through the chills and aches for a few days, refusing treatment and/or Nyquil, until one night I took his temperature and it was 103.7 degrees. I wigged and called my mom in the middle of the night to ask her advice since we didn’t have a family physician yet, there were no urgent care centers nearby and I was reasonably certain that human brain cells start spontaneously combusting at about that temperature. My mom said I should take advantage of Mr.Tall’s delirious state and hustle him to the nearest E.R., which I did, after dosing him with aspirin to bring down the fever.
We waited at the emergency room for hours—five, to be exact—while Mr. Tall protested that he didn’t belong there and a few tabs of Clartin would fix him right up. Then his forehead would break out in red blotches and he’d start talking nonsense about a purple kangaroo and the 1993 L.A. Kings season. So FINALLY we get in to see an actual doctor, and so much time and aspirin has gone by that when they take Mr. Tall’s temperature, it is (wait for it) 98.7. The nurse clearly thought I was a hysterical, Munchausen’s by Proxy loon, but was too polite to say so.
“See?” Mr. Tall raised his fist in triumph. “Allegies!”
Then he damn near collapsed on the gurney.
Turns out, he had bronchitis that had developed into walking pneumonia and had to take antibiotics the size of the Goodyear blimp for the next three weeks. If you ask him about that E.R. visit today, he just says, “98.7, baby! Ohhh, snap!”
By the way, he’s still sick today. From Saturday’s case of, ahem, “food poisoning.” I’m going to have to start sneaking Sudafed into his salsa.
Posted by Beth at 1:31 AM | Comments (5)
Comments
Oh, I KNOW!! What is wrong with men? I mean, seriously? Remember the black knight from Monty Python? His arms all hacked off, going, "It's just a flesh wound"? That's the way Fish is. It's gotta be a guy thing. I think that's why married men live longer than single men - because someone makes them go to the doctor when they're sick.
Posted by: Lani ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.literarychicks.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at April 14, 2006 6:57 AM
I hear you! Mine will forever be telling me that he doesn't feel good, but will he go see a doctor? NOOOOO! AND his step-dad is a doctor, for Pete's sake! He (DH) got gout in his big toe a couple of months back. I TOLD him it was gout, TOLD him to go see his doctor, but he ignored me and crippled around until it was finally so bad he couldn't stand it anymore. THEN he finally talks to his stepdad, who of course confirms my diagnosis and prescribes him some medicine with side effects that scared ME!! LOL! He's on some kind of medication now that helps keep the gout in check, but I seriously thought we would be taking a trip to the ER because he was so stubborn about it! Of course, I am getting a little leery of going to the doctor myself--seems like every time I do they find something wrong with me!
Posted by: Sheri at April 14, 2006 1:17 PM
Oh, no, poor Mr Tall! Hope he feels better soon.
And Lani's right about married men and that "someone" makes them go to see the doctor :-)
Posted by: Michelle C at April 14, 2006 1:37 PM
A couple years ago, Cowboy removed his own stitches. He'd slashed his leg open doing something to a car or something. At least he deigned to let someone else sew him up in the first place. I suppose I should be grateful for some things.
Eileen R
Posted by: Eileen at April 14, 2006 3:06 PM
You guys are lucky. I got the other kind. Brad got chicken pox and, oh, the drama. He was worse than a teenage girl - "OMG, I'll be scarred for life." "My mother says you should buy me some vitamin E cream so it doesn't scar." "My throat hurts. Can I have some ice cream?" "I think I could eat something now," with a hopeful, long-suffering expression.
You can see why I loved the title of Jenny's book, "Getting Rid of Bradley." ;+)))
Posted by: ZaZa at April 15, 2006 10:57 PM
