Man flu.
Pretext:
I always do my best to avoid any illness; the smallest sniffle of a colleague at work, a friend or family visiting that looks under the weather and I’m covering my face and avoiding a germ infested hand shake as if I’m dealing with a victim of the black plague.
There’s good reason though; for my excessive efforts of disease aversion. In short I just don’t cope, whether it be because I’m a man or because I’m a Dad of a two year old boy and its not just one of us that has to contend with any viruses it’s our whole little unit, all three of us suffer badly and on the most part because it causes a lack of sleep on all parties – (read the bio on Sten – Sten needs sleep; simples) it causes us all in turn to cause each other lacks of sleep and the one thing we all need in order to heal successfully and speedily is…. Sleep.
As it is without an illness I struggle to complete a sleep cycle without my darling love knocking z’s out so loudly that the dogs sometimes start at the front door; one could be dreaming and easily fooled into thinking they were using a powered breaker on a concrete lintel at a demolition site, waking up shouting at her to stop snoring and being told off for shouting, well when wearing ear protection we do shout don’t we, because we can’t hear ourselves and thus assume others can’t either… ‘CARLY… PLEASE STOP F’ING SNORING FOR F’S F’ING BLOODY SAKE.’ Grumpy ass (understatement) Sten on a lack of sleep is beginning to set in here.
Recent events have led to calm discussions and good solutions, she amazingly went to the shops and bought some nasal strips that are designed not only to stop snoring but also to reduce the effects of congestion – we both wore one each and I can not fault them and must say they are an absolute God send and they work really well; just don’t look in the mirror after a midnight piss, you might scare yourself if you forget its there.
Other barriers still hold a refuted stance to warrant me a good night’s sleep such as my son incessantly demanding the final percentage of bed left over for his midnight sleep acrobatics session.
The other percentages work out on the following descending order of size:
The dog 70% (legs must be able to be fully stretched out at a moments notice of course. Need I mention that this is a Jack Russel.)
Carly 5% plus an extra 10% for her arm and her fist that must imperitively fit snugly in the centre of my spine in order to restrain Charlie’s gymnastic display of fancy footwork.
Charlie gets 10% plus any room he decides is his when he approaches it, often the space he takes is held hostage at the threat of him sitting on one of our faces and potentially suffocating said loving parent in a soft, warm, squidgy nappy coated in a lovely cotton wrap with tiny car decorations that look life size that close up.
Me…
I get 5% and that’s borrowed, if I attempt to claim any right of ownership; I’m reminded that its a mortgaged property that could be revoked at any point and that interest is likely to rise with the oncoming illnesses.
Man flu, named such a diligent title on account of its unique ability to bring even the toughest of gents to their knees; often reduces their usually fine vocabulary to a series of well articulated grunts and hand gesticulations – a side note should be reserved here for the clarity of which the odd swear word can be managed.
Words that have often been noted in history are:
‘gnnnnguh’ which can be applied as a call for attention to any poor unsuspecting healthy bod that might appear to care too much and so gets requested to help with the almighty battle against the poor, beaten males’ formidable snot monster.
‘Bleeuuuughhh’ which translates as ‘that was both disgusting and satisfyingly relieving at the same time.’
And finally; ‘nnnngurrrrr’ which is the traditional thanks given to the tissue God for clearing up yet another expulsion of face born paint stripper.
It appears to be some form of high end spiritual journey that can have its victim experiencing deformed versions of physics and natural law – an example would be the sheer amount of liquid that can pour out of an inflicted nostril, who needs to run a bath when one has the ability to fill up a wonderfully tepid saline tub full; quicker than the standard mixer taps can achieve.
Green energy enthusiasts are missing out on some potential here – that salt water could become a fuel with the addition of a cathode and its counter part to evoke the electrolysis that forms hydrogen.
Given that the brave, heroic man flu bearers, need certain qualifications; such as a minimal age of at least 30, this well aged saline solution produced; could be considered the fossil fuel of the twentieth century.
Numerous symptoms of man flu all tend to bundle on top of the unsuspecting male all at once, often crippling him by forfeit of essential needs such as lung fulls of oxygen and full cycles of restful sleep.
To describe a few there’s the sore nose; after mopping up the anthropomorphic representative, of an over flow pipe to a toilet that is in need of better plumbing for the five thousandth time.
Carefully daubed with the next tissue out of the rain forest worth just used in the last two minutes of monsoon catching; leaves the skin of a mans poor conk feeling like it has severely neglected sun burn.
One has to keep rubbing his poor schnozzle with these expensively decorated, overly well marketed tissues, with the term ‘soft silk’ and ‘man size’ these on hand snot catching lifebelts feel like pieces of medium grit sandpaper after only half a days worth of proboscis diarrhea.
There will never be a tissue soft enough to avert the oncoming sore skin caused by incessant wiping; in order to stem the streaming of highly concentrated sinus acid as it strips layer upon layer of skin from the inside of my nostril in its wake. I’m sure the inventive minds of many a man may have considered storing it for later use as a paint removal solvent.
Even though there are attempts by marketing companies to employ a suitable tissue that is fit for a ‘man sneeze’ none shall ever be worthy; for a greater splatted man sneeze befits any given tissue in a similar way that a wage befits it’s living – one will naturally always live to the ends of their means and one will always be skint no matter the height of job title and well earned peanuts.
There appears to be a job role of each nose, yes I did do that, I referred to two noses on account of the common mistake everyone always makes having mentioned their poor schnoz enough times in search of a sympathetic ear; for the reference to sound funny.
Inevitably one will soon succumb to the faux pas of telling another caring soul that their noses hurt or that one nose is running like Hussein Bolt on a 50 quid wrap of cocaine.
Whist the other nose is blocked and causing an intense headache after sneezing so hard it’s created a vacuum in the cavity above the dam created by what appears to be a one way snot valve – air, bubbles and liquid may leave but none shall enter.
It makes me feel like I’ve just been smacked in the face with a brick on a rope or maybe two bricks, either way it fecking hurts.
Sometimes if I’m lucky; after a sneeze the vacuum will attempt to claim back some pressure and my nose will squeal as the valve is temporarily released until the internal/external atmospheres are equalised; it sounds a bit like a resistant dog toy after being chewed, left bubbling through a thickened, lingering bit of drool, that has cured in the warm air of the home to become as full bodied as the skin of day old custard.
The over powered sneezing sessions that seem somewhat like a semi automatic rifle being set off in fits and starts from within my head; cause an after effect that is extremely painful. With a stinging sensation that feels like a steeply serrated knife has been pulled out of my nostril and put back again – ‘genuine mistake boss, I was after the bread knife up the other nostril’ ‘yarrrrrrg!’
Being forced to breathe slowly through my sensitive teeth and unable to pass air through either nose, while the great river Stens-nose meets pillow-mouth as it deluges out to the epic duvet-sea; I attempt to sleep with a miserable mood cloud over my head.
My hot breath dries my lips until they crack like the muddy bed of a dried out watercourse having been baked in a blistering heat wave, any moisture that comes along disappears deep into the fractured mosaic that is the outer layer of my poor peeling skin; hungry for just a dribble of water to sooth its now plastic surface.
End of pretext and on with it.
A cold can be like a creeping fog that engulfs an entire family over night; an unsuspected sniffle in the cold air, a slight ache when doing a simple task such as getting up from the sofa; near silent signs of the terrors to come.
In this instance it took us out one by one like a deadly sniper. The tone of a gentle coughing the night before; next morning it was monsoon season for my poor darling Carly’s olfactory nerves.
The doom slithered up the back of her neck, hot, wide and choking as she realised when her dad had visited recently he seemed under the weather. Charlie had been snuffling and sleeping uneasily for the last two nights (the first victim already taken down by the deadly accurate sinus shooter; without as much as a whisper of warning).
She seemed fine when I left for work. I called her later and she was beaten and tired,struggling to communicate without that nasal, French dialect, tone in her voice; associated with a stuffy nose.
She soldiered on and kept going like every super mum does whilst I did my best in between working hours over the ensuing two days to supply with hot toddies, soothing menthol sweets, a lot of TLC and errands for tissues on demand.
Tissues…
Or snot rags as I prefer to call them are like the black rats that carried fleas and spread the plague, they should be used and burnt, or disposed of in a hazardous bio waste bag.
Carly doesn’t do this, she gets intimately attached to each and every sheet; she has shared a touching schnozzle wipe with, she just can’t let them go.
On the surface; it’s endearing and cute seeing her wrapped in a fluffy blanket with the extra bump of our dog wiggling periodically to force his way beneath her skin (he would if he could), her bedraggled, innocent ‘I need a cuddle’ look upon her poor red nosed face.
But then the phone will ring or some good reason will give cause for her to abandon her pit and one will see the extensive nest of reluctantly half discarded tissues she’s been hatching.
She stuffs them everywhere and anywhere, apart from in the bin; oh no because the bin is too much like closure – death of the tissue never to be reused again, that’s my theory; she can’t let go of ’em because she genuinely intends on using that tiny corner left dry from the last epic expulsion of liquid snot and saliva.
They get shoved under her pillow at night and when shes near unconscious no surprise is warranted to find a couple of tissues stuffed in my own armpit!
A word of advice – do not lend my lovely fiancée any item of clothing that has pockets when she has a runny nose – if you do; expect it to feel like brand new trainers just out of the box, when you put them on excitedly; impossible to put your feet in until you’ve removed the tissue.
How she copes with being so down trodden, tired and ill when I’m not there to help is as mythical to me as the tooth fairy. Charlie is a handful when she’s not ill and this time he was extremely clingy and feeling the oncoming effects of it himself just before the infamous Schnizzel Mc Nizzle virus had inflicted its demonic worth in Carly’s sinus.
Labelled the invincible healthy one that would fend it off and not notice the strain; my ego was flattered and more than willing to kiss and cuddle the recently diseased portion of our little family unit, happy to do the extra bits and upkeep those things that Carly was too tired to achieve. I recall her asking if I was sure I wanted to kiss her germ ridden mouth and I had chimed with a go getter verve: “I’ll be fine I’m tough and rugged.”
I was wrong, the next morning I was feeling achy and sluggish as I got out of bed; by lunch time I was struggling to breathe.
I had already grabbed a pile of tissue from the toilets to save time walking back and forth; the first snivvles can be dabbed and thrown away but as it progresses into an adult virus a one or two sheet section is barely enough for a single face blast.
By 4pm it had fully taken hold and I’d began to roll up mini nose tampons to stem the stream that was beginning to carve itself an unwelcome avenue down my top lip. I drove home that evening with a plug up one nostril.
Got home safely, pulled the wet rag from my nose and chucked it in the bin, what followed was a warm flood that I just about caught before it spilled down my t-shirt, joining Carly under the blanket with our pile of sodden tissues growing ever larger. Yes if it’s fine for her to build a viral nest of discarded tissues then it’s fine for me too, can’t beat em join em.
When I went to bed that night it had fully implemented, my man flu was in full swing; I couldn’t breathe without blowing snot bubbles.
The highly resourceful tissue based tampon idea turned mushy within minutes and fell out allowing floods of face liquid to pour onto my pillow, I couldn’t sleep for the cracking headache I’d achieved by sneezing so hard repeatedly I’d created a vacuum in my sinus that could be heard clicking as tiny pockets of air were permanently being sucked in.
Eventually, as he always does at about 3am, Charlie woke up and decided it was time he joined us in bed; now there was no chance of sleep because he was also feeling awfully bunged up and fidgeting about like popcorn on the heat before it bursts. He hasn’t began to understand what a cold is yet, so he gets frustrated that his two super god; slave monkeys, can’t stop the cause of his upset.
Carly soon got fed up with my stressed out sleepless retorts at her snoring, Charlies midnight wiggling exercises and the repertoire of sneezing and dribbling my adenoids has prepared for me.
After much protest and unwillingness to leave my coveted spot in the bed; which was now soaked by my intense bout of Rhinorrhea.
It’s like an old pair of trainers isn’t it, even though they stink and they’re bad for your feet after the amount of miles they’ve traveled with you there is an amount of sentiment that has grown for them and it’s a sad feeling to have to let go of them, so sad sometimes in fact; that it is not uncommon to hear of a teenager having flared up into aggressive fits of anger over disposing them.
That’s just how I felt, combined with my grumpy lack of sleep mode (see my bio on sleep) I just don’t feel happy leaving my bed groove all unattended at that time of night; after all I have lovingly honed that mattress dip to fit my body nicely over many years of laying on it.
I retired to the reclining sofa after a short bout of protest and a few choice midnight suited curses; quickly following by a very cute little Charlie monster calling Dada Dada Dadaaaaa in a desperate, heart melting: ‘don’t leave me’ tone.
He joined me as I stretched the blanket around my ‘Harry Henderson’ feet; he spread out, star fished across my chest as I did my best to relax and breathe. He managed to pass out soon having been comforted my my arms blanketed around him and my head bowed down to put my cheek against his forehead.
My breathing actually improved quickly and I fell asleep for approx an hour before being woken abruptly; first by Charlie deciding he’d had enough sleep at half six and then by the morning alarm at seven.
Needless to say I felt worn out and dizzy when I got up, I’d not felt this bad in my younger days when I used to stay out all night partying only to find my way to college the next day. I called in sick to work after deliberating for twenty minutes whether I should attempt it given my whole years no sick record that I was loathe to break.
It is ironically interesting, isn’t it though: how when you’re feeling rough as a well used bastard file and quite clearly sound, look and feel absolutely rubbish; that the moment your manager answers the phone to you – you get dealt a 1UP card and feel better for the duration of the phone call as if it couldn’t be worse to have to battle the most horrible snout inflicting disease; you now have to attempt to ‘put it on’ a bit to ensure the belief in your lack of ability to work today.
If that were not troublesome enough then what follows is the internal dilemma of questioning if it were realistic enough to convince through the period telephonic scrutinising.
If you’re ill enough however – one does not have much care for it and feels absolutely just in telling straight ‘ I will not be in today – I’m ill’ followed by ‘whats wrong?’ at this point I felt like exploding with a torrent of heartfelt words to describe my torrid night, weakly what I actually said was ‘I have a cold, I’ve not slept and I don’t feel safe driving to work.’ that seemed to do the trick and it appeared to be accepted.
Goodbye manager and off back to bed/sofa with a Lemsip, Charlie cuddles and mind numbing episodes from Cebeebies with eyes half shut I dozed through the day.
By the next morning I’d had quite enough of this awful state but was beginning to mend. During the night had ran out of cold remedy capsules, instead I took two Ibuprofen and two paracetamol; I can’t remember the logical deduction that made me try this – but it worked well and I slept much better which gave me a fighting chance to get back on my feet.
Throughout the day; after another tedious phone call to my very kind and understanding manager (ensuring him this time around that the guys I’d left in charge were able bodied and capable of holding the ships tasks for another day without too much collateral effect). I dozed and drifted through another day determined to gain the energy to return to work; I took more of the new combo of drugs that appeared to work through the night.
By evening that night I was almost over it; unbelievable, I’d heard tales colleagues, friends and family all end up battling the terrors of man flu for over two weeks and I’d just beaten it in two days.
I do wonder though if they all had to endure such tragedy as myself, or whether what happened to me was the same amount of misery everyone else gets, but all compacted into the short space of forty eight hours.
URRRGH!