We’ve been a bit of a sick house the past two weeks, which hasn’t been the most pleasant way to start the new year. Glen and I started off alternating illness with blocked noses and throats that felt like razor blades. Now we’re just sick together. Isn’t that nice?

Glen gets sicker more often than I do but since moving to Toronto and not having the cat around (he’s allergic), he’s been better, only suffering with a few minor sniffles, rather than the constant protestations of “I have a head cold!” back home.

Protestations that elicit very few care-giver sympathies from me, I might add.

In fact, last night I even kicked him out of bed for all the snuffling and coughing he was doing. Then, with ear plugs blocking out that awful sound from the living room, I was able to get back to sleep.

I think he got some sleep too, eventually.

When I was growing up, being sick wasn’t given much credence. If you could walk, you weren’t really sick so get on with it. If you couldn’t walk, then you should be in bed, getting better and not getting in the way.

I had glandular fever when I was 18, the sickest I have ever felt in my life. Before it was diagnosed, I tumbled out of bed, sick as a dog, and caught the bus to work in the pouring rain, only to be told my shift was cancelled and I could go home again. When it finally was diagnosed, I stayed in bed, as boring as it was, and don’t remember much care from my family being metered out, other than to check I hadn’t died.

I’m probably exaggerating a little bit and truly, I’m not bitter about the way illness was handled in our household. If anything, it made you get better sooner because you knew prolonged whining wasn’t going to get you very far.

But I do feel bad for Glen though. I tried to convince him to take a sick day because he really does look like he needs to spend a day in bed but he refuses. 

Hopefully he’ll be ok for skiing tomorrow.