My husband is a huge hypochondriac and I find it pathetic
It’s winter cold season and chills and sneezes are par for the course, with people dropping like flies at work, in schools and at home, too. While I can find painkillers and warm drinks, TLC, and sofa blankets for my children, when my husband gets ill, I feel my hackles rise and any sympathy levels go through the floor.
It’s not just that he leans into being unwell. The groans and protracted coughing are irritating enough as he lies pathetically on the sofa. He also insists on diagnosing himself with a dastardly ailment. Sniffles? A sinus infection. Mild cough? Well, according to him, that’s definitely the onset of a chest infection.
Last year’s talk of the 100-day cough got a lot of airtime in our house. As soon as he clocked a few headlines alluding to a cough which could last a few months, my husband did his best to convince himself, me and anyone who would listen that said cough was something he was suffering from. All served up with a splutter, as if to underline his point.
I used to be a lot more sympathetic, before we had children. Then I would brew endless hot drinks, trot off to source paracetamol for him, suggest he went to bed early and provide ice cream to aid a sore throat. My perspective on this changed when the first of our children was born but my husband and his attitude to illness didn’t mature. At best, I’ll suggest he takes something and goes up to bed – this is usually through gritted teeth.
Babies and toddlers are defenceless so whenever they get ill, they obviously need round-the-clock care, temperature checks and someone to administer Calpol when needed. A grown-up can fend for himself and I soon realised he is capable of sourcing his own hot honey and lemon or digging out a fresh box of tissues. When I already have three children to care for, I shouldn’t have to pander to an adult male as if he is a helpless infant. Plus, I don’t want either of my sons to grow up thinking that this dramatic patient routine is the acceptable way to carry on.
It’s long been a jokey remark that man flu can be deadly. Well, my husband is a fully paid-up subscriber to this theory. That is something else which grates. If I am ever unwell, I like to take medicine, rest up, keep drinking fluids and get back to full health as quickly as possible to avoid too much disruption to the family, household chores – which continue to mount up – and my job. Not my husband. Any ailment is discussed much like a war wound for months afterwards. I can only wonder and cringe how his patter about whichever sickness has taken hold is received among his colleagues.
Child-rearing has also meant I have spent years spluttering through whichever winter bug has taken hold and kept cooking meals, reading books with my children and doing the school run. For my husband, life grinds to a halt the second he has a scratchy throat.
I fear his appetite for embracing illness is only going to get worse as we get older. He already presumes any aches or pains are the beginnings of arthritis and he’s convinced himself he’ll inherit any ailment either of his parents happen to develop.
It baffles me why anyone would want to fixate on potential health problems when, for the most part, they are fit and well. Perhaps I need to work on my tolerance because if I’m fed up with my husband’s illness chatter now, imagine how sick I’ll be in 20 years?
