I don't know if anyone can explain this to me:
Why is it that my husband - who has traversed the desolate terrain of the Alaskan wilderness with nothing but a gun and dehydrated food and a sleeping bag to hunt some of the world's fiercest game, who has been med-evac'd from said wilderness with blood pouring from his face and consciousness waning, and who has defeated blindness-induced depression and loneliness by calling mightily upon the power of God - is taken so completely
when he comes down with a cold?
For the past several weeks, we've both discovered allergies due to the massive pollen this year. I've never gone through so much Kleenex in my life. We've hacked and coughed and sneezed and whined through it together, but I've got to be honest and tell you that I really had it worse. Seriously.
But of course, life goes on! The dinner won't cook itself. The dishes won't spin and dance and rinse themselves and file neatly away into the cabinets! So allergies, congestion, mucus be darned. Drink some water and keep on moving!
And one night, when I dared to lament that we were out of Ny-Quil, Brian shook his head and said lightly, callously, "Ny-Quil only lasts an hour or two. You don't need that stuff. Just use this nasal spray and you'll be fine." So although the nasal spray has kind of an energizing effect, I inhaled it and took a few Tylenol PM and managed. And I did that every night until I started feeling better.
(Here is where my herb- and tincture-pumping mom will look disgustedly at her computer screen and scoff at the poison I used to attack my immune system. Yes, Ny-Quil is not for allergies. I know. But whatever I had, it felt like a cold. So did it matter? And isn't sleep good for the body? Hmm?)
So anyway, I tell you this story to illustrate how sad it was when, a week later, Brian started likewise sniffling, hacking, and whining. But this, my friends, was power-whining, trumpeting-elephant whining, whining to beat the band, to summon leagues of angels for his rescue!
"I hate you a little bit for giving this to me. Yes, you gave it to me."
Hack. Hauck. Hawwwwwk.
"Ohhhhh, auuuuungh." Hawwwwwwwk.
"No, I don't want juice. I don't want water. I want to feel betttttttttttter. Ohhhhhhhhhhh." Hawwwwwwk. Spit. Spit.
"You don't know what I'm going through." Spit. Spit. Hawwwwwwwk.
And imagine my astonishment when, as he was getting ready for bed, he called me from the bathroom. "Maegan," he demanded groggily, "where's the Ny-Quil?" Hawwwwwwwk.
"Babe, we're out! We've been out for a long time!"
"WHAT?! Out of Ny-Quil? How can we BE OUT OF NY-QUIL?! Ohhh-ho-hoooohhhhh!"
"Honey, calm down! You just told me last week that it doesn't even work for you all night!"
"This is worse than what you had. I need Ny-Quil."
So what, you may ask, did the Wonder Wife do that evening for her sick and sorry husband? Why, run to the store, of course, for this Ny-Quil. And in her wisdom, she also bought something new and powerful and altogether wonderful: Zicam. Which worked, praise Heaven! and a few days later, Brian was no worse for the wear.
So the story ended happily, everything considered, except now I am plagued by this constant question: what the heck is it about a cold?
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