“What do you meanhes ill? How bad is it?” gasped the mother-in-law.
“Just a bit under the weather. Low fever, nothing serious. Winters setting in.”
“Thats not just winter! Its your jobyoure bringing all sorts of germs home from that till of yours! How many times have I told you to find another job?”
Emma was asleep when a loud noise jolted her awakesomeone had opened the front door! She rubbed her eyes and checked the clockonly eight in the morning!
“Oliver, love, is that you?” she called out, listening for movement in the flat.
No answer. Just the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, then silence.
Emma threw on her dressing gown and dashed barefoot to the bathroom.
She pushed the door open and froze.
Oliver stood in front of the mirror, lips stretched wide, inspecting his tongue.
“Emma, is it true your tongue goes white when youre ill?” he asked.
“Are you ill?” she mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Probably,” he said, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I need the thermometer. Where is it? Let me lie down. They even sent me home from work. Might need to call the doctor.”
Emma fetched the thermometer. Sure enough99°F. Just typical. Winters here, and Olivers down. The GP came an hour later, signed him off work.
Emma rang her mother.
“Could you pick up little Harry from nursery? He cant come homeOlivers ill.”
Her mother was delightedshe adored her grandson, lived alone, and Harry was her joy.
“Whats wrong with Oliver? Something serious?”
“No, just a bug. The GP came, gave him a sick note, some meds. Hell rest up.”
“And how are you feeling?” her mother fretted.
“Im fine! Ive got the late shift at work. Ill ask his mum to check on him tonight. Itll be like this all week. Alright, thanks, Mum. Sorted.”
What now? A light chicken soup would do, but shed need to pop to the shopand the chemist. Had to dig the chicken thighs from the freezer, grab carrots and potatoes.
At the chemist, she grabbed the essentials. At lunch, she shook Oliver awake.
“Come on, have some soup,” she urged, nudging his shoulder.
Oliver groaned and sat up.
“Ugh, I feel queasy. Can I have it in bed? Cant make it to the kitchen.”
“That bad? Fine, Ill bring it. Then check your temp again”
After soup, another readingstill 99°F. Emma gave him tablets. Oliver turned toward the wall and dozed off. At least he was resting. She couldnt afford to catch ithis sick pay was full, but hers at the shop wasnt. And with the mortgage, she couldnt risk it. She rang her mother-in-law.
“Margaret, Olivers ill. Could you check on him tonight? The shops packed eveningsI cant keep ringing.”
“What do you meanill? How bad?”
“Just resting. Slight fever. Winter, you know.”
“Thats not just winter! Its your jobdragging germs home from that till! How many times must I say itfind something else!”
“Margaret, Im not ill! And youve said yourself Oliver was always poorly as a boy. Its the cold snapnothing to do with me.”
To cut the lecture short, Emma ended the call. Margaret loved making mountains out of molehills, and shed likely turn up within the hour. Finelet her fuss. Emma needed to get ready for work anyway.
Sure enough, Margaret arrived bearing herbal remedies for her son, insisting theyd help. Emma let her. She gasped dramatically when changing Olivers damp T-shirt.
“Left him in wet clothes? Hell get worse! How could you not notice?”
“Margaret, he was asleepwhat could I do?”
Emma left for work. Hours later, she felt a chill. Noshe couldnt be ill too. She powered through her shift. That evening, her temperature was higher than Olivers. She wanted to complain, but he was too busy inspecting his tongue in the mirror.
“Feel shivery and achy. Mum made me raspberry tea with honeyhelped a bit, but now Im worse. What should I take?”
“Honestly, I dont feel great either”
“Well, take something then,” Oliver said, still examining his reflection. “Still white. Unbelievable.”
No, she couldnt be ill. And whod listen? Mum would call nonstop with advice, Margaret would blame her, and Oliver was too wrapped up in himself.
Decision madeno complaining. Take tablets quietly, work through it. The bills wouldnt pay themselves.
All week, Oliver milked his illness like the worlds greatest martyreven at 99°F, he insisted he was suffering terribly. Margaret visited daily with her potions, and Emma dreaded facing her, knowing she looked rough.
Oliver noticed nothingdozing between the telly and his phone. Each night, Emma checked her temp, and by day four, it was normal. She still felt weak, but she pushed through. Oliver, meanwhile, demanded meals in bed, temperature checks, drinks fetched.
Margaret claimed hed been sickly as a child, but this was his first cold in five years of marriageand it was unbearable.
Every minor sniffle was a tragedy to him, constant moaning about his suffering.
The next week, he was cleared to return to work. Harry came home. Tomorrow, Oliver would be back at his desk.
Over tea that evening, he sighed dramatically.
“Used to shake off colds as a kid. This one really knocked me outyouve no idea.”
“What was so awful? You barely had a fever.”
“Easy for you to say! Try being in my shoes when youre perfectly healthy.”
“I was in your shoes. I had it tooyou just didnt notice.”
Oliver gave her a skeptical look, then smirked like hed caught her out.
“Joking, right? Alright, lets get to bed.”
Emma sighedhed never even realised.
Oh well.
Like the old joke saysa woman whos given birth can only vaguely understand what a man goes through with a 99°F fever
