Monday, April 10, 2006
Conversation with Ralph
Just when I thought my husband and I had escaped this winter’s flu season unscathed, I read in the paper while en route to work that there is a second wave of the illness flooding through Sweden; the veracity of the story confirmed by several sickly co-workers. When I arrived at work, I scrubbed my hands like Lady Macbeth rubbing out that damned spot. No way was I getting the flu. No siree! Not after what happened last flu season.
That day last year had started like any other, but by noon, my boss had driven me to the station and put me on the train back to Stockholm. I rocked along the rails uneasily, grimly determined to show the conducted only my train pass, and not what I had for breakfast that morning.
Despite my queasiness, I was comforted by the fact that once I made it home, I could curl up in bed and let my husband, KA, take care of everything as soon as he got home from work. He would bring me flat 7-Up, just like my mom did when I was a kid, and make me some dry toast when I felt I could nibble on something. I wouldn’t have to do anything but rest—and how often does that happen?
When I finally dragged in, I was surprised to find my husband already home and curled up on the sofa. “Hey, honey. Whatcha doing home so early,” he asked. I asked him the same question. Turns out we had both caught the bug!
Like most couples, we take care of each other during illnesses—didn’t our marriage vows say in sickness and in health? Well, there is nothing in that contract that covers simultaneous sickness. We needed an ad hoc solution, and we both thought of it at the same time, although neither of us expressed it verbally. We had to determine which one of us was sicker, which in turn would determine who had to play nurse for the next few days, or possibly the whole week, depending on how long the unwelcome germ-guests decided to stay.
I crawled into my pyjamas and tottered out to the living room, where KA was already curled up on one end of the sofa under a blanket. I took the other end of both sofa and blanket. No sooner had I settled in, KA asked me for a glass of water. “But I just sat down!” I moaned. “Sorry,” he said, as he tore a banner from a partially unfurled roll of toilet paper sitting on the coffee table. He honked his nose loudly.
The toilet paper’s a nice touch, I thought. “OK, I’ll get us some water,” I said. I returned a few moments later with the water, as well as a plastic bag, which I ceremoniously opened, rolling down the edges with care to form a suitable emergency receptacle, thereby upping the ante a bit: KA had a runny nose, but my plastic bag was a harbinger of something far more unpleasant, not to mention messier.
“Oh,” he said casually. “You been ‘talking to Ralph on the big white phone’ today?”
“No, I have not ‘talked to Ralph’ today” I said, irritated by his juvenile reference to throwing up. “I’m just afraid that I might have to. How about you fix us some tea?” I said. “I’m real dizzy,” he replied. “The room’s spinning. I’m thinking about having a conversation with ol’ Ralph myself.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I said. We were getting nowhere with this. We regarded each other with feverish, bloodshot eyes. “Look,” I said, “I’m going to try to get some sleep. We’ll see how we both feel in the morning.” “I’ll be there in a bit, as soon as I can see straight,” KA said.
I eased myself off of the sofa and went to the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of water to sip on during the night. I then removed my contact lenses, which was normally no big deal; it had been a part of my nightly ritual for several years now. But that night, because of my compromised condition, the unnatural act of touching my eyes had the same affect as clicking “shut down” on a computer. Suddenly, all systems began closing down. I had only a few seconds to get to the bed, the softest place in the house to land.
Without saying a word, I grabbed the glass of water and lurched off toward the bedroom. With only five or six more steps to go, the shut down sequence finished. I collapsed in the hall, smacking my head on the door frame on the way down, which began the reboot sequence. I was awake in time to hear the bottom of the water glass strike the tile floor at the same time I did. Water splashed everywhere, but the glass somehow remained unbroken in my hand. My face pressed against the door frame, and my legs tangled under me as if I were a dead bug. KA’s slippers shuffled behind me.
“What happened?” he asked. “I passed out.” I informed him from my contorted position on the floor.
“No way!”
It occurred to me that he had never seen me pass out before, so maybe he was in denial. Or maybe he just didn’t want to lose. I just may have played the winning ace. “Yes, I passed out,” I said almost a little too cheerily, turning a red eye to look up at him through damp strands of stringy hair.
“No, you must have tripped on something.” He wasn’t going to give up easily. I could hear him shuffling around behind me, looking for the offending shoe or backpack, both of which commonly inhabited the hallway. “No, I passed out. Really.” I insisted. “You know…as in fade to black.”
“Are you sure?”
He placed his hands on his hips and studied the scene. He made no attempt to move me, as if I were a dead body at a crime scene and he was waiting for the lab boys to come and collect evidence before the cadaver car hauled me away.
“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. It was only for a couple of seconds, but I did, indeed, unequivocally, lose consciousness,” I reaffirmed patiently. I wasn’t about to let him poke holes in my air-tight story.
“Passed out? Now what am I supposed to do about that?” he wondered. This certainly wasn’t what he had expected. “Well, you could start by taking this glass and mopping up the water,” I suggested, stirring for the first time since my crash landing. In his mind, he was thumbing through our unwritten rule book and coming to the realization that he had lost this round.
Pulling myself slowly to my feet, I plodded the last few steps to the bed, smiling smugly, rubbing my sore forehead, and savoring victory—I’d be the one getting dry toast and tea on a tray in bed the next morning!
That day last year had started like any other, but by noon, my boss had driven me to the station and put me on the train back to Stockholm. I rocked along the rails uneasily, grimly determined to show the conducted only my train pass, and not what I had for breakfast that morning.
Despite my queasiness, I was comforted by the fact that once I made it home, I could curl up in bed and let my husband, KA, take care of everything as soon as he got home from work. He would bring me flat 7-Up, just like my mom did when I was a kid, and make me some dry toast when I felt I could nibble on something. I wouldn’t have to do anything but rest—and how often does that happen?
When I finally dragged in, I was surprised to find my husband already home and curled up on the sofa. “Hey, honey. Whatcha doing home so early,” he asked. I asked him the same question. Turns out we had both caught the bug!
Like most couples, we take care of each other during illnesses—didn’t our marriage vows say in sickness and in health? Well, there is nothing in that contract that covers simultaneous sickness. We needed an ad hoc solution, and we both thought of it at the same time, although neither of us expressed it verbally. We had to determine which one of us was sicker, which in turn would determine who had to play nurse for the next few days, or possibly the whole week, depending on how long the unwelcome germ-guests decided to stay.
I crawled into my pyjamas and tottered out to the living room, where KA was already curled up on one end of the sofa under a blanket. I took the other end of both sofa and blanket. No sooner had I settled in, KA asked me for a glass of water. “But I just sat down!” I moaned. “Sorry,” he said, as he tore a banner from a partially unfurled roll of toilet paper sitting on the coffee table. He honked his nose loudly.
The toilet paper’s a nice touch, I thought. “OK, I’ll get us some water,” I said. I returned a few moments later with the water, as well as a plastic bag, which I ceremoniously opened, rolling down the edges with care to form a suitable emergency receptacle, thereby upping the ante a bit: KA had a runny nose, but my plastic bag was a harbinger of something far more unpleasant, not to mention messier.
“Oh,” he said casually. “You been ‘talking to Ralph on the big white phone’ today?”
“No, I have not ‘talked to Ralph’ today” I said, irritated by his juvenile reference to throwing up. “I’m just afraid that I might have to. How about you fix us some tea?” I said. “I’m real dizzy,” he replied. “The room’s spinning. I’m thinking about having a conversation with ol’ Ralph myself.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I said. We were getting nowhere with this. We regarded each other with feverish, bloodshot eyes. “Look,” I said, “I’m going to try to get some sleep. We’ll see how we both feel in the morning.” “I’ll be there in a bit, as soon as I can see straight,” KA said.
I eased myself off of the sofa and went to the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of water to sip on during the night. I then removed my contact lenses, which was normally no big deal; it had been a part of my nightly ritual for several years now. But that night, because of my compromised condition, the unnatural act of touching my eyes had the same affect as clicking “shut down” on a computer. Suddenly, all systems began closing down. I had only a few seconds to get to the bed, the softest place in the house to land.
Without saying a word, I grabbed the glass of water and lurched off toward the bedroom. With only five or six more steps to go, the shut down sequence finished. I collapsed in the hall, smacking my head on the door frame on the way down, which began the reboot sequence. I was awake in time to hear the bottom of the water glass strike the tile floor at the same time I did. Water splashed everywhere, but the glass somehow remained unbroken in my hand. My face pressed against the door frame, and my legs tangled under me as if I were a dead bug. KA’s slippers shuffled behind me.
“What happened?” he asked. “I passed out.” I informed him from my contorted position on the floor.
“No way!”
It occurred to me that he had never seen me pass out before, so maybe he was in denial. Or maybe he just didn’t want to lose. I just may have played the winning ace. “Yes, I passed out,” I said almost a little too cheerily, turning a red eye to look up at him through damp strands of stringy hair.
“No, you must have tripped on something.” He wasn’t going to give up easily. I could hear him shuffling around behind me, looking for the offending shoe or backpack, both of which commonly inhabited the hallway. “No, I passed out. Really.” I insisted. “You know…as in fade to black.”
“Are you sure?”
He placed his hands on his hips and studied the scene. He made no attempt to move me, as if I were a dead body at a crime scene and he was waiting for the lab boys to come and collect evidence before the cadaver car hauled me away.
“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. It was only for a couple of seconds, but I did, indeed, unequivocally, lose consciousness,” I reaffirmed patiently. I wasn’t about to let him poke holes in my air-tight story.
“Passed out? Now what am I supposed to do about that?” he wondered. This certainly wasn’t what he had expected. “Well, you could start by taking this glass and mopping up the water,” I suggested, stirring for the first time since my crash landing. In his mind, he was thumbing through our unwritten rule book and coming to the realization that he had lost this round.
Pulling myself slowly to my feet, I plodded the last few steps to the bed, smiling smugly, rubbing my sore forehead, and savoring victory—I’d be the one getting dry toast and tea on a tray in bed the next morning!
# posted by Karen @ 2:21 PM 
