How my nursing husband saved my life, over & over again

When one partner in a marriage falls ill and is confined to bed, the other partner had better be ready to make things better. Even if that means going a little overboard with the daily and nightly nursing duties.

By Sam Wilson

Earlier this year, I had a serious bout of meningitis and needed to spend six weeks in bed. I made the most of this time…dozing, sulking, occasionally drooling and almost constantly whining. I am not good at being sick. In fact, I suck at it.

I am your basic working mom, used to doing a number of things at the same time, and all of a sudden I found myself ceremoniously settled between a quilt and a hot water bottle, with a handful of heavy meds, told to lie still in the dark.

I couldn’t read, I couldn’t text, I couldn’t watch TV or play on my computer. I most certainly couldn’t work. All this made me very bored and not a little bit grumpy.

You can imagine, I wasn’t that fun to be around, and even less fun to look after. My husband, Andreas, really had to step up. And boy, did he.

First I should perhaps explain that my beloved husband Dreas has a touch of Asperger’s, and consequently has an extremely well segmented life. He works from home and ticks off his responsibilities…parenting, writing and editing, cooking, spending time with the family, reading and sleeping. In that order.

Whenever I want to add an activity beyond that, I need to give Andreas a warning, usually a timeous Whatsapp saying: ‘Gird yourself. I’m going to suggest an unscheduled activity later this evening.’ Seriously. It’s one of the secrets to our 25-year relationship between a structured person and a spontaneous person.

Now, illness, by its very nature, is an unscheduled activity. But over the six weeks, the change in Andreas routine was startling, in fantastic and sometimes humorous ways.

First, he took over the medic role. I had only been allowed home from hospital if I took a trough of giant pills with me, and Dreas made sure that I took the required dose every four hours, day or night. I have never heard a more officious phone alarm. Sometimes I suspect he just opened my mouth without even waking me up.

He also started bringing me trays at mealtimes so regular, you could set the time zones to them. Consumption of this tray was also paramount. Once I dozed off with a piece of cheese toast to my mouth (did I mention these were VERY strong meds?), and he just sat on my bed simply holding it at the ready until I woke up. Half an hour later.

Then there were the more subtle changes. He started wearing his watch the wrong way round, and feeling my pulse regularly with a knowledgeable air. He developed a way of taking my temperature with the back of his hand. He also acquired a sort of cluck whenever he found an unfinished plate, a discarded hot water bottle, an iPhone secreted under my pillow.

The better I got, the nursier Dreas became. He had adjusted his routine to look after me, day and night, and by damn, it worked, so why change it now that I was awake and checking my email? He even seemed a little disappointed when the pills ran out, and he had to reluctantly reset his complicated alarm system.

Then there was the fateful day when I… got up.

‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ clucked Andreas. ‘The neurologist said only to get up when you felt completely better.’

‘Honey, this has a 6-12 month recovery period. I don’t think the doctor meant ‘completely’ completely.’ I answered, desperately trying to get some clothes from the cupboard Andreas was stoutly blocking. ‘Besides, love, you have been incredibly amazing, but if I don’t turn up to work soon, they are just going to stop paying me.’

‘How will I bring you lunch at noon if you aren’t even here?’ he clucked again. ‘And the hot water bottle, How…’

Then there was a Significant Pause, of an ilk not unfamiliar in our relationship.

‘Am I doing that thing again?’ Dress asked, a little crestfallen.

‘In the most fantastically loving way,’ I said, gently easing him from the cupboard and stealthily sneaking out a pair of jeans. ‘But it’s time for our routine to go back to normal. You know, where I function like a person, and not a patient. Where I do things, well, that you didn’t necessarily plan.’

‘But it’s so much easier when you don’t do that. Or move around at all, actually,’ said Andreas, morosely. ‘You’re going to start up the spontaneous texts again, aren’t you? Are you sure you’re feeling better? We might be able to get more of those pills?’

Suddenly, I had a brainwave. ‘Honey? You know how the cat is now over 15 years old? She’s started looking very peaky, don’t you think? I wonder if perhaps we should start giving her supplements? She’s also so thin. Maybe a hot water bottle at night?’

Andreas suddenly turned a concentrated stare on the cat. ‘You’re right, she does need more looking after. What do you think her favourite food is? We could work it out you know, by charting…’

And that, my friends, is what those of us who love scheduled people call a Routine Hand-off. I don’t know if it really works, but Andreas is wonderful enough to pretend it does, if nothing else. His watch might not be changing sides any time soon, but at least I have my laptop back.

• Sam Wilson lives in Cape Town with her husband Andreas, and teenage sons, Josef and Benjamin. She works in content and social media, but spent over a decade writing parenting columns about her sons growing up, for a living. Now that they can read, they are less than amused.

• This article first appeared on the Change Exchange, an online platform by BrightRock, provider of the first-ever life insurance that changes as your life changes. The opinions expressed in this piece are the writer’s own and don’t necessarily reflect the views of BrightRock.