“Oh my goodnesshe’s sick? How bad is it?” gasped the mother-in-law. “Hes just resting, thats all. A slight fever, nothing majorwinters here, after all.” “This isnt just winter! Its your jobyoure bringing all sorts of things home from that till of yours! How many times do I have to tell youfind another job!”
Emily was asleep when a loud noise startled hersomeone had opened the front door! She rubbed her eyes and checked the clockonly 8 in the morning!
“Oliver, love, is that you?” she asked, listening carefully for sounds in the flat.
No answer. Just the creak of the bathroom door opening, then silence.
Emily threw on her dressing gown and rushed barefoot to the bathroom.
She pushed the door openand froze in shock.
There was Oliver, staring at his reflection, lips stretched wide as he admired his tongue sticking out.
“Emily, is it true that when someones ill, their tongue goes white?” he asked.
“Are *you* ill?” she mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Think so,” he said, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Need the thermometer. Where is it? I should lie down. They even sent me home from work. Might need to call the doctor.”
Emily fetched the thermometer. Sure enough99°F. Great, winters arrived, and Olivers down with it. The GP came an hour later, signed him off sick.
Emily rang her mum:
“Could you pick up little Harry from nursery? He cant come homeOlivers poorly.”
Her mum was thrilledshe adored her grandson, lived alone, and Harry was her joy.
“Whats wrong with Oliver? Anything serious?”
“Nothing major. GP came, gave him a sick note, some medswell rest up.”
“And how are *you* feeling?” her mum fretted.
“Im fine! Ive got the late shift tonightIll ask the mother-in-law to check on Oliver. And thats how itll be all week. Alright, thanks, Mum. Sorted.”
Right thenwhat to do? A light chicken soup, so shed need to pop to the shop besides the chemist. Grab chicken thighs from the freezer, buy carrots and potatoes.
At the chemist, she got everything. At lunch, she nudged Oliver awake.
“Ol, get up, have some soup,” she said, shaking his shoulder.
He sat up groggily. “Ugh, I feel queasy. Can I have it in bed? Cant face the kitchen.”
“That bad? Fine, Ill bring it. Then well check your temp again.”
After soup, another readingstill 99°F. Emily gave him pills. He rolled over, facing the wall, and dozed off. Well, thank goodness. As long as *she* didnt catch itOliver got full sick pay, but at her shop? Not a chance. And with the mortgage, she *couldnt* fall ill. She rang her mother-in-law:
“Margaret, Olivers poorly. If you could check on him tonight? Its always packed at work, I wont be able to call.”
“*Poorly?* How bad is he?” Margaret gasped.
“Asleep. Slight fever, but finejust winter settling in.”
“This isnt *just* winter! Its your jobdragging germs home from that till! How many times must I say*find another job!*”
“Margaret, *Im* not ill! Youve said yourself Oliver was sickly as a boy. Frosts here, so its not my fault”
Cutting the call short, Emily sighed. Margaret could turn a molehill into a mountain, and no doubt shed be round in an hour. Finelet her fuss. Meanwhile, Emily had to get ready for work.
Sure enough, Margaret arrived with herbal tea tins”for strength.” Well, if it helped. She tutted, changing Olivers shirt.
“Honestly, letting him lie there in sweat! Hell get worse!”
“Margaret, he was *asleep*what was I meant to do?”
Emily left for work. Hours later, weakness crept in. Oh no*she* was coming down with it! But no complaintsshe had to finish her shift. That evening, her temp was higher than Olivers. She wanted to moan to him, but he was too busy staring at his tongue in the mirror.
“Chills and aches,” she muttered. “Mum gave me honey-lemon tea, helped a bit, but now its back. What should I take?”
“Honestly, I dont feel great either…”
“Well, take something,” Oliver said, still peering at his tongue. “Still white. Unbelievable.”
Rightno falling ill. And no point complaining. Mum would call every five minutes with advice; Margaret would blame her; and Oliver? Oblivious.
Decision made: no whinging, quietly take pills, work through it. Bills didnt pay themselves.
All week, Oliver wallowed in his “misery,” acting like no one suffered moreeven at 99°F flat, hed groan, “*So* poorly.”
Margaret kept turning up with potions. The last thing Emily wanted was to face hershe looked rough.
Oliver noticed nothingjust napped between telly and phone. Each night, Emily checked her temp. Only by day four was it normal.
The fatigue lingered, but she pushed through. Oliver, though? Days in bed, demanding meals served, drinks fetched, temps taken.
Margaret claimed hed been sickly as a boy, but this was his first cold in five years of marriage*unbearable!*
A slight sniffle, and he acted like deaths door, moaning nonstop.
Next week, he was cleared. Harry came home. Back to work for Oliver tomorrow.
Over evening tea, he sighed.
“Remember being ill as a kid? So much easier. What Ive been throughyouve no idea.”
“Whats the big deal? It wasnt *that* bad.”
“Easy for *you* to sayyou werent the one suffering!”
“Actually, I *was*. You just didnt notice.”
Oliver stared, then smirked. “Joking, right? Ah, forget itbedtime.”
Emily sighed. Hed *really* never noticed.
Oh well.
Like that jokea woman whos given birth can *sort of* grasp what her husband endures at 99°F…
