Most years I just lie to my mom now when she asks if I’ve had my flu shot, but I happened to be at the doctor’s office for a routine appointment when they were administering quadrivalent flu shots this year, so I got one. (Quadrivalent, for those of you who don’t know what it means, translates loosely to “bad mamma jamma.” Bad mamma jamma, in turn, can lead to some fun Web searches if you don’t know what it means.) Afterward I promptly called my mom to tell her how responsible I’d been, in hopes that it might buy me a year or two during which she won’t nag me about flu shots. That theory was scrapped today when she found out I’m sick and she started a new chant that I’m certain is sponsored by whoever produces Tamiflu.
Anyway, flu shot. Did it. And now after comparing symptoms with my sister who was tested for the flu and diagnosed with one of the A types, it turns out that this mini-plague I’m suffering now may actually be the flu. Except I’m handling it far better than unvaccinated folks would, so contrary to all the whining I’m doing to my husband, it won’t in fact be the end of me.
In other news, today is our ninth wedding anniversary, and I’m finding it difficult to even get a high-five outta my husband, who shrinks into the oversized neck of his hoodie sweatshirt and runs, screeching, away from me anytime I get within two feet of him. The guy is terrified of the flu, for good reason.
Years ago–around year four or five of our marriage–when we were living in California, he contracted THE FLU OF ALL FLUS that landed him in the ER and, we’re certain, almost killed him. I’ll never forget that moment when, several days later, he was on the mend and I was coming down with the worst of it. I was sick and exhausted from caring for him around the clock, so when the sickness REALLY hit me and I was the one running a 102 degree fever, I remember just lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling thinking, just make my death quick, please. And in waltzes on-the-mend husband with a thermometer to check my progress. After taking my temperature he declared almost triumphantly, “My temperature got higher than yours!” If I’d had the strength to do so, I might’ve killed or at least maimed him then and there.
But I didn’t, so here we are: nine years into our marriage, and ten years into putting up with one another. I texted him today to say happy anniversary–he’d let me sleep in while he crept off to work this morning–and he replied, “Let’s hope for nine more,” with a winky face.
Happy nine years, dude. I love you the mostest. Thanks for loving me too.