Misery is the punchline for viruses’ cruel riddle

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 14/03/2018 (3076 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

It’s not supposed to happen this way.

If I have learned anything during my six decades on the planet, it is this: you are supposed to get one cold during the winter, after which you are completely immune and can amuse yourself by mocking other people who are suffering from the same virus that your body recently overcame and can NEVER EVER get again, if you catch my subtle medical drift.

Hey, I don’t make the rules, but we have all lived by them for as long as I can remember.

This year, however, the viral rule book has been thrown out the window, so to speak. I say this because, as I sit here huddled in my office cubicle, I am suffering from (If this next bit is not true, may bolts of lightning erupt from keyboard and short-circuit my central nervous system) my THIRD (BAD WORD) COLD of the season.

Yes, Cold No. 3. A triple-bagger of viral misery. A triumvirate of potentially lethal Killer Colds from Hell! Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying this because I want your pity. No, it’s more like I am demanding your pity, because otherwise, what’s the point of having your own newspaper column?

The point is, my eyes are watering as though I were watching on a continual loop that heartbreaking part in the movie Marley & Me where (Spoiler Alert) the dog dies. I am running a fever to the point wherein I can warm up my coffee simply by resting it on my forehead. There is a chain of drool (that’s what I’m calling it because I’m writing for a family newspaper) running from my nostrils down to the keyboard. And I am trying so hard to suppress an annoying cough that I suspect one of my lungs has exploded, which I hope will be covered by workers compensation.

The thing is, I caught what was supposed to be my one and only cold of the season a couple of months ago. It lasted at least four weeks, during which time I was extremely brave, as you can see from the following transcript of a conversation I had with my wife:

Me (coughing): “Huddy, could yew pweeze bwigb be a cowd dwink?”

My wife: “You are so pathetic.”

Me (wheezing): “Duz dat mean yew won’t wub my fowehead and caw me a poor widdow bunny?”

So, yes, what with being a guy of my particular gender, I was able to suffer basically in silence with a minimum of support from my loving spouse, She Who Must Not Be Named.

After getting over that cold, I was perfectly healthy for a couple of weeks until I was suddenly blindsided by Cold No. 2 over the Louis Riel long weekend, which I spent flat on my back on the couch, barely complaining and almost never begging my wife to bring me tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches with a side of Advil Cold & Sinus Plus.

Having survived a second cold — a cold that clearly violated the everybody-gets-one-cold-per-winter policy — I looked on with sadness and surprise as my beloved spouse did something she almost never does, namely succumb to whatever virus I was spewing while reclined on the couch.

I knew my wife was sick because, whenever I looked into our bedroom, I could see a lump of covers on top of our bed that was vaguely shaped like my wife, and it was emitting a constant series of pathetic moans and groans.

What with being a sensitive modern husband, I offered my ailing wife words of comfort, such as: “What’s with all the moaning and groaning? You never heard me whine like that when I was sick?” Or: “When you finish moaning, what are you planning to make for dinner?”

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: “Gee, Doug, you are a regular Florence Nightingale.” (For all you young people out there, Florence Nightingale was a famously compassionate person who founded modern nursing.)

Anyway, thanks to the tender care I provided, my wife quickly rebounded — at least until she came down with her second cold of the season, a cold she is still suffering from as you read these heartfelt words.

Deep in my heart, I knew that because I had already had TWO COLDS, scientifically speaking I had to be immune to whatever virus was wreaking havoc with my wife, a fact I relayed to her constantly.

“Ha ha ha,” I would helpfully point out. “You have a cold and I can’t get it. Neener! Neener! Neener!”

My wife appreciated my efforts to boost her spirits. “I hate you,” she would moan in what I assume was a gesture of love and respect.

Last weekend, despite being sick, my wife drove to Ontario to visit our daughter. If you have ever watched TV commercials, you will know that women can be at death’s door but still engage in fun activities such as skydiving or riding horses or visiting their daughters to impart motherly wisdom, whereas guys of my gender are rendered physically incapable of operating the TV remote control.

That means I was left at home alone with our three dogs, which sounded like fun, right up until — against all odds — I was zapped with Cold No. 3, which is easily the worst of all the colds I have experienced this season.

I cannot begin to explain how angry I am at being hit with a Triple Whammy of Man Colds from Hell. Two colds is a clear violation of the rules, but three constitutes some manner of criminal conspiracy. Again, it left me lying on the couch in the den for several days. The dogs would look in on me from time to time, but there wasn’t much they could do because, without opposable thumbs, they are unable to open child-proof bottles of medication.

Now my wife is back from visiting our daughter, and we are engaged in a strange sort of medical standoff wherein both of us are vying for the title of Sickest Person in the House. If you were to eavesdrop on our den, it would sound like this:

Me (hacking): “COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! Pweez bwing me sub soup.”

My wife (snorting): “COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! Ged yowh owd (bad word) soup!”

So here it is, less than a week away from the unofficial start of spring, and my wife and I are celebrating by coughing up medically valuable organs.

If anyone feels like dropping by, please remember to bring chicken soup. You can put it on the couch in the den, right beside my spleen.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca