Doing the Nasty

My wife and I haven’t been sleeping together.

For the past few nights, I’ve slept on the couch or in my office, curled up under an old blanket or with some random pillow that just doesn’t feel right. At the moment, my relationship with the wife is such that if I see her, I walk in the other direction. If she dares enter a room with me, she knows she’ll get nothing more than a finger pointed in the other direction. I barely have to speak to her anymore. She knows to get the hell away from me. And, try as she may, she can’t bring herself to speak to me either.

Strep throat will do that to you.

I don’t think I’m breaking any martial vows by telling you my wife’s tolerance for pain is equivalent to a three year-old who knows doting adults are watching. She’d rather suffer years of water boarding than stub her toe. Of course, she is also the only member of this family to drop a seven pound weight out of her crotch, so I can’t say too much. However, if I were going to say too much, I might say that she handles the pain of strep throat…well, I guess about like anybody else handles the pain of strep throat. I, for one, can’t remember ever having been afflicted with the illness. My mom, ever the champion of the Mother Class, insists I did have strep as a kid and likely handled it pretty badly. She also tells me that it feels like someone took a heavy grade sandpaper and snaked out your esophagus. My wife just says it hurts worse than any sore throat she’s ever had.

Yesterday her doctor, in spite of a “false negative” strep test, diagnosed my wife with a “nasty throat” and sent her home with some antibiotics. Where normally I might be a bit intrigued by the concept of a spousal nasty throat, in this case, I was willing the believe that the doctor–again, in spite of a negative test–was likely right. And even if she wasn’t right, I still wasn’t going to go anywhere near my wife.

Now, in normal cases, I’d be a real fucking hero about all of this. If it meant I had to lick said “nasty throat” to prove my love for my wife, I’d do it. I have a fairly decent immune system and only get sick once or twice a year. This time though, I can’t afford to take any chances. I’m getting ready to go on an eleven day international trip, during which I figure to be working 16 hours a day or so and traveling on every mode of uncomfortable transport you can imagine (aside: there should be a law that coach must be described as “coach” and not “tourist class” or some other “class.” Coach is coach and it means it will suck, no matter how you look at it).

Before the “nasty” diagnosis, I was avoiding close contact and deep high-school-style kissing with my wife. Now, she gets me in thirty-second shots (that’s enough snickering from the peanut gallery). That is, I pop into the bedroom to bring her water or broth and noodle soup. She takes it, rasps something that sounds like “I love you” or “I wish you were dead” and crawls back under the covers. And me? Well, I’m Mr. Mom for a while. See, my kid’s pain tolerance is better than my wife’s, but he’s still only two. And with me getting ready to hit the road, the wife can’t really afford to give the kid Nasty Throat.

And so now, as the kid naps and I pound through my work-work, I realize I’m unshowered, unshaven, and generally disgusting. I’ve slept about 12 hours out of the last 72. I actually feel okay so far. However, if this continues for much longer, I’m going to have to see about finding some home remedy for the Nasty.

More on the upcoming trip to come. The kid is stirring and I need to wash myself.

Labels: Family, Health, Marriage, Mt. Otis, Parenting, Physical, Travel