Why Can't I Be Sick

I’m mad. And I’m sick. A cold? A Throat thing? I take pills and cough syrup. It helps but I can’t talk. My voice is gone. I go to work and whisper. I joke about it but it’s not funny today. I’m mad at me for being sick and I’m mad at me because I don’t allow myself to be sick. Then, to add another layer, I’m mad at him too for being stronger—or maybe more stoic? He went through chemo and didn’t miss a day of work. So how can I take a sick day for a sore throat? I know it’s crazy but it’s in there. In my fine little head. It raises the paradox. Is being sick—and knowing it --really healthy? Maybe my reluctance to be sick is a sign of health. Maybe a sick day is a mental health day? Maybe. But I’m still pissed.

We are Sick

His cough became a cold. His cold became my sore throat. My sore throat became a cough. Now we are both hoarse and sniffling. We watched the Super Bowl with tissues nearby. We sleep and wake but not at the same time. In the morning I can see that he has been on the couch again. He sits up to stop the coughing and he reads Crime and Punishment. I toss and turn then wake clinging to the side of the bed. Am I sick enough for a sick day? Why is that so hard? I decide to stay home and the answer is clear. Home alone and quiet and not feeling well invites all the worries and fears. The kitchen counter has an array of medicines and remedies. I move from couch to bed. Tonight we will have soup and try to sleep through the night. Folie a deux? Or Flu for two?

When I am Sick

This morning on my way to the YMCA I got very sick, very fast. It was on and off so suddenly that it was probably something I ate but for the hour that I was ill my head raced to all kinds of places. Can I be sick too? Can I be sick when he has cancer? Who will take care of me if this is real illness? For an hour I went thru every scenario. All about scarcity: Is there room for me and am I allowed to be unwell? The vulnerability I feel in general became very specific.

I am Sick of Him

I sit on the floor in the restroom at the oncology center and cry silently. I feel my life slipping away. I write this in my journal:


I am sick of him.

I am sick of the New York Yankees.

I am sick of his music.

I am sick of the apples he likes.

I am sick of his schedule.

I am sick of the movies he wants to see.

I am sick of him being sick.

I am sick of him.