Mister Man is sick. At first, I thought it was the dreaded MAN COLD (i.e. a wee case of the sniffles that insists upon bringing the world to its knees). But when I heard him coughing this morning, I realized that Mister Man is actually really sick. I don’t think it’s the swine flu or the west nile virus, but he is a hacking, snorting, sneezing, wobbling mess.
Most of all, he’s a terrible patient. And I am an even worse nurse. BECAUSE I BELIEVE HIM WHEN HE ANSWERS THE QUESTION “Would you like me to make you some sorbetto” with “Yes. Blueberry?”.
And then when I actually MAKE the fruity blueberry sorbetto, he doesn’t want it. When offered a little bowl of the home made vitamin C rich and refreshing fruitiness, he makes the poo face (you know the one in which a simple offer of delicious food is greeted with an expression that might be more appropriate had I handed over a big ol’ bowl of cow poop smothered in cat pee?)
Silly me from the school of bad nursing. I WANT TO HELP HIM and then when he makes it clear that he'd rather have his eyelashes plucked off rather than accept the help, I become a bit sulky. Bad nurse. (Moments later, of course, he actually WANTS some help. Bad patient.)
This is who I fear I AM.
Needless to say, we had a quiet weekend. Though I did do a destination bike ride with a great group of women. I’ll write about that later. Now, I must attend to the patient and force him to drink some orange juice and eat that bowl of cow poop......