Weddings! You gotta love ’em. As we daintily dab our eyes with hankies, the blushing bride breathlessly glides down the aisle to her handsome groom. Gazing adoringly into one another’s eyes, they vow affinity one to the other into eternity. Promising to love one another in good times and in bad, in sickness and ….Whoooooa, Nellie!
If you’ve been married any length of time at all, such as an hour and a half, that “sickness and health” business brings on an unpleasant mental soundtrack of screeching brakes or Fran Drescher – whichever is more irritating.
Ask any member of the feminine half of the spousal equation what “in sickness and in health” means, and you’ll find yourself on the fast-track to a well-guarded secret not addressed in any of the helpful pre-marital advice generously doled out to the betrothed. What I am referring to is the dreaded Lopsided Sick Spouse Syndrome.
Now by “lopsided,” I’m certainly not suggesting that one or the other spouse is literally irregular or unbalanced, although that might explain a few things. But we won’t go there today. What I’m referring to is the curious anomaly that renders strong men helpless at the first sign of nausea, sniffles or unfortunate incidents involving power tools, while women (a.k.a. the “weaker sex”) literally give birth on prairies, roller coasters or in the backseat of Yellow cabs with barely a whimper.
Say what you will about equality between the sexes, but my money is on the woman who stands by her man as she nurses him through a bout of plantar warts or tennis elbow – the same man who goes into nervous tics and tremors when confronted by a woman dealing with a little PMS.
I know, we all have fond family stories of Great Uncle Alfred who stood by crazy Aunt Earline for 67 years as she went into random Exorcist-like rages about the invisible radio waves seeping in through their fireplace, a sinister Martian conspiracy sent to destroy her brain. Yes, we all nod; Uncle Alfred was a saint, although he tended to hit the sauce pretty good now and again.
This always made for entertaining family gatherings.
“That Alfred has got himself a snootful,” Grandma would mutter.
Let me stress that in our house I have it pretty good. I know that when I get sick, I have a good 24-hour window when my spouse would cross a swamp filled with alligators to bring me a cool drink of water to ease my pain. OK, so he’d probably cross it in an impenetrable, steel-bottomed boat, but you get my drift. After that, however, it gets a little dicey. I have visions of lying prone at the intensive care facility, hooked up to all manner of machines and life support systems. If I was to exceed my 24-hour grace period, I get the feeling he’d lean in close and whisper in my ear,
“Don’t you think you’re milking this thing just a little too long, Gale?”
My friend Cecilia is caring for her husband who is recuperating from a recent motorcycle mishap. Cecilia landed at my door the other day with a wild look in her eyes. I knew that look – a deer in the headlights or a woman with an ailing husband – there’s little difference. I patted her shoulder and attempted to offer her a bit of hope.
“Thank heaven the injuries weren’t more serious!” I chirped brightly.
“He hasn’t survived his convalescence yet,” she sniffed crossly.
So if you’re a woman and your spouse is shuffling from room to room trailing tissues in his wake, just accept that you’ll need to undergo a few sessions of marriage counseling because you probably shouldn’t set his slippers on fire.
Gale Hammond is a 23-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at Ga*********@*ol.com.
