Me and Barry White

I woke up this morning channeling Barry White.

Not that I should be surprised.

My Hubby came home after work on Saturday, himself channeling Barry White, and deteriorated swiftly into channeling one of the virus-stricken from I Am Legend.

Seriously.

By Sunday morning he was running a fever right up against 102. Despite my efforts to alternate Tylenol and Advil every four hours, like a good nurse would do, his fever stayed high. He wavered between burning up and sweating until the sheets were soaked. I had to work (from home, at least), but I would go and check in on him every hour or two. He lay in the bed, curled up in the fetal position, face gray and eyes hollow, a grimace of misery on his face. He shivered, his teeth chattered, there were not enough blankets to keep him warm. He coughed and coughed, the deep raspy cough that comes from the very bottom of the lungs. He blew his nose until the skin around it was red and raw.

He was ill.

I knew something was desperately wrong when he couldn’t even be convinced to watch hockey. That was when I determined that we would go to Urgent Care.

Late in the afternoon, when I was finally finished with work, I got a neighbor to watch the kids and I bundled my poor Hubby up and packed him in the car. When we got to Urgent Care we were the only folks there, thankfully. The triage nurse checked My Hubby over and determined that he had the flu. I guess they have to test one anyway, so he stuck a very long Q-tip up My Hubby’s nose until he coughed and gagged, pronounced that success was to be gauged by the level of coughing the Q-tip produced, and stuffed it into a plastic baggie.

He showed us to a room and ordered My Hubby some Tylenol. After reviewing with us just how much medication My Hubby had already taken, he said with a smile, “That’s just not enough, big guy! I’m ordering you a gram!” Poor guy was so sick that the reference to a gram of something didn’t even make him smile. He huddled on the gurney, in a room with too many lights, squinting in pain and coughing like he would never stop. Finally, the triage nurse brought in a heated blanket and tucked it in around him. He hooked him up with the gram of Tylenol, and I turned out the lights. My Hubby was fast asleep within five minutes.

He snored a little, and would sit straight up every three or four minutes to cough like a wild man, then flop back onto the gurney, still asleep. Every time he sat up, I covered my nose. I could picture the germs in there, ready for formation, calling to each other, “It’s time! It’s time! Everybody ready?”

Then as soon as he would cough, I could almost see them, little insect-like wings buzzing, red beady eyes focused on the prize, tiny headsets all tuned in to the message, “Get to her mucus membranes! Go! Go! Go!” Ugh.

Three hours later, after I had read every magazine in the joint, none of them interesting and all of them at least four months old, we got the results. Sure enough, he was positive for the flu. The evil, nasty, suck the life out of you, beat you while you’re down, KO in the first round, flu. The doctor hooked him up with some Tamiflu, ordered him to stay home from work the next day (which I had to follow with a threat of death or severe bodily harm should he attempt to leave the house and go to work the next day), and sent us on our way.

He coughed and shivered all night long. I got about 1.2 hours of sleep, in between the coughing fits and running to the kitchen for more Tylenol and water. All night, he laid on his side, facing me. I tried to turn on my side, facing away, so those nasty little germies would bounce right off, but I ended up facing him every time. I know they were just beelining through my parted lips, up my nose, maybe even into my tear ducts.

He stayed home on Monday, huddled under the covers and begging God for mercy. By Monday evening, he had some light back in his eyes and some color back in his cheeks. I think the color might have been from the fever he was still (STILL) running, but it made him look a little less like the walking dead, poor baby. Yesterday, he sounded a lot less like Barry White and more like himself. He went to work and braved it for a half day, although by last night he was exhausted. I thought we were coming out of the woods…

But just before bed, I got a tickle in my throat, a little fullness, like I needed to cough.

And this morning? Barry White.

I have a feeling we’ll be heading downhill from here.