I am lying face down on the bed. My face is buried in the pillow. I hear the key in the electronic lock and I know he's home, though I wasn't expecting him yet. I hear his bookbag and keys get flung onto the kitchen counter. I want to cry. "Bay-beh-looz," I hear him call. We don't have any way to spell this particular nickname, but that's how it sounds. "Where are you?"
"In bed," I half whisper, half speak.
He comes in the room and takes a look at me. "Well this can't be good."
"Understatement of the year," I whisper.
"What's wrong?"
"I think I have the beginnings of a migraine."
"Okay, well don't worry about cooking," he says, likely not knowing that a migraine means I'm not doing a whole helluva lot of anything. I think I've had only one other one in my life. "Can I get you anything?"
"Yes, some naproxen. It's on the kitchen counter."
He brought me two naproxen and a cup of ice water. "Anything else? What should we do about dinner?"
"Why don't you just go to the place next to Kappy's?" I give him an order explicitly including some soda, which I very rarely drink, but knowing it can help curb migraines, especially in the very beginning.
He came home a little while later with dinner and a can of Pepsi for me from the vending machine down the hall. He made this awesome plate for me with a little of everything and I dragged my ass to the couch, curled up with the Red Sox blanket I made for him last fall and started feeling better after about an hour thanks to the naproxen and Pepsi.
"Feel better," he asked. I nodded. "I hate when you don't feel well. I hate seeing you sick like that."
Thankfully my health has been on a steady increase since my surgery a month before the wedding. It's so reassuring to know he's here, though, ready and able to take care of me when and if I need it.
"In bed," I half whisper, half speak.
He comes in the room and takes a look at me. "Well this can't be good."
"Understatement of the year," I whisper.
"What's wrong?"
"I think I have the beginnings of a migraine."
"Okay, well don't worry about cooking," he says, likely not knowing that a migraine means I'm not doing a whole helluva lot of anything. I think I've had only one other one in my life. "Can I get you anything?"
"Yes, some naproxen. It's on the kitchen counter."
He brought me two naproxen and a cup of ice water. "Anything else? What should we do about dinner?"
"Why don't you just go to the place next to Kappy's?" I give him an order explicitly including some soda, which I very rarely drink, but knowing it can help curb migraines, especially in the very beginning.
He came home a little while later with dinner and a can of Pepsi for me from the vending machine down the hall. He made this awesome plate for me with a little of everything and I dragged my ass to the couch, curled up with the Red Sox blanket I made for him last fall and started feeling better after about an hour thanks to the naproxen and Pepsi.
"Feel better," he asked. I nodded. "I hate when you don't feel well. I hate seeing you sick like that."
Thankfully my health has been on a steady increase since my surgery a month before the wedding. It's so reassuring to know he's here, though, ready and able to take care of me when and if I need it.
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