by Tina Haapala

Created on: June 22, 2009   Last Updated: June 24, 2009

After a home improvement project went bad, my lungs were practically solidified, and my brain wasn't getting enough oxygen. That's my excuse for worrying that Dr. Boyfriend (he insisted on the title, having a PhD in Chemistry) would be upset that I would have to cancel our date for that evening. I called his voice mail, and my asthmatic alter-ego explained that I was being admitted to the hospital. I used humor to lighten the gravity of my situation: "Rain check?"

My subtle sarcasm was lost on him, apparently after having run off with his manners. Two days later, he was surprised to see how sick I was. It was his first visit to the hospital.

He stayed for 15 minutes.

By the time I was released a few days later, I was feeling a little less sure about my membership in the "We club", even though we'd been together for 6 months. My sister and girlfriends were flabbergasted. Where was he? He should be helping you...

I didn't like asking for help. I didn't like needles either. Having faced the latter countless times in the prior week, I felt I could do it. I had to take a break crossing my small living room to get the phone, but when I did, I asked my beloved for a favor: Some groceries please? I knew for me, the simple trip would be like climbing Mt. Everest.

Dr. Boyfriend's lungs, however, were in tip top shape. His exasperated sigh agreed to go to the store. Well, my friends don't know about the sigh. At least they would see that he helped.

My beloved arrived at my condo a few hours later, groceries in hand.

Five cans of soup.

Umm, thanks.

The weekend before I got sick, I had treated him to an extravagant dinner, where he made sure to order the most expensive entree on the menu. And three drinks.

Soup.

The canned goodness gave me enough energy to support my denial. A week later, I packed a bag and continued my recuperation at his place. My beloved wanted to spend time with me. How sweet. Of course, he also wanted to spend time with his dog, so my place was out of the question. Dr. Boyfriend felt his dog was not comfortable in my condo.

While there, not feeling well enough to mount his exercise bike, I made the mistake of stepping on his scale instead.

"Well, at least I haven't gained any weight," I said, "It'll be a while until I can get back to the gym." Eating soup for a week probably helped, too.

"Well," he said, "You may not have gained weight, but you've lost your tone. You're looking a little flabby."

I'm convinced that the oxygen deprivation

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>