When someone makes the public announcement that they have spent the past week in bed, most people respond with the remark, “oh aren’t you the lucky one!” Explain that it was neither a matter of choice nor enjoyment, a tiny bit of them still remains unconvinced as it really is every woman’s dream to spend a week slothing in their bed. I don’t think slothing would be the male number one choice for a week in bed, but far be it for me to speak for the male of the species (well, at least this time).
Indeed, I have been slothing in bed, as the piles of empty sports drink bottles and tissues on the floor next to my bed, and mugs with the dregs of three day old instant soup on the side table testify. I could have asked for a plastic shopping bag to use as a garbage bag, but that would have taken thought and effort, both beyond me this week. (Yes, I do have enough cloth shopping bags on the floor of my pantry to give every fleeing refugee heading for the border, but come on, who remembers to take them when they are actually going to the grocery market; and there are only so many extra bags I can buy from guilt before I will be nominated to appear on one of those television hoarding programs).
Two things I did manage to achieve though: I learnt to move position every now and then to avoid bed sores while also avoiding any increase in pain, if such a thing was possible, and I also lost two kilograms from Monday to Thursday. It is called the Diverticulitis Diet, and is a marathon of intense and prolonged gut wrenching pain; and I do mean gut wrenching, sleepless days and nights, and a near liquid diet. Any pain killer stronger than paracetamol merely prolongs the fun so it is a long day’s night. I predict that you won’t be reading about the DD in the next edition of any women’s magazines, or men’s for that matter! (My physiotherapist declares that her male colleagues are more conscious of body fat and count calories more than her female colleagues).
Mr FD has been my knight in a white coat, not. Even though he works from home, he managed to check on me with the amazing regularity of about every six hours. I think he was hoping to miss the period of rigour mortis, after which I could perhaps be posed in a more angelic position, and hair combed out of its impacted mohawk, before the hearse arrived. Then again, his rounds did seem to coincidence with amazing regularity to the exact time he thought about meals and wanted to know what there was to eat. When I complained to his hastily retreating back about his lack of the Florence Nightingale gene his solution was to suggest that I phone him in his downstairs lair should I need him. I yelled, only so he could hear me as he walked back down the staircase, that I couldn’t remember his #@$%^*# mobile number. (Who memorises phone numbers in this day and age, for heavens sake!) Ever the man for detail he turned on the landing, only so that I could hear his voice a little clearer, and recited his mobile number. Strangely enough I didn’t have a pen and notebook in my pyjama shirt pocket, as one does, and explained that I was terribly sorry but circumstances prevented me from taking full advantage of his information management.
I got my revenge though. A public pathway runs below our bedroom window, and at times I was in so much pain on Monday and Tuesday that I may have been making enough noise to equal a barrack of torture victims at Guantanamo Bay. The ensuite window was also open, just to ensure maximum neighbour effect. Having lived in suburbia my entire life I know that neighbours are never ones to let fact get in the way of a colourful and creative work of fiction, so I am sure that they have now marked Mr FD as a perpetrator of domestic violence, or that I am into sadomasochism, which after 35 years of marriage is probably nearer the mark; either way I win.