Dear Diary - Mansick

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Fluffy Bear is mansick.  Yes, that's what I said... mansick.  

 

Not sick.  

 

Mansick.

 

See, it's different for men. 

 

OK, maybe that's too much of a generalization.  It's different for MY man.

 

I may have a fever, I may feel nauseous, I may have to plug wads of toilet paper up my nose to stem the flow of mucus and I may be coughing up globules worthy of horror movie special effects BUT... I am not, and will never be, as sick as he is.

 

Because, you see, Dear Diary, unlike me, he has Death at his side.  His time has come.

Yep, Death.  Black robe, skeleton face, shiny silver scythe.  

 

That Death.

 

And Death - being the mean, horrible and nasty being that he is - is toying with the idea of taking Fluffy Bear -- taking him any second now.  

 

Isn't that SCARY?

 

I can't see Death, because he's not here for me.  But Fluffy Bear can.  What else would explain the haunted facial expression, the soft moans of despair and the occasional writhing of the body?

 

As Fluffy Bear lies on the couch, in snuggly PJs, covered in a warm comforter, a hot pack nestling around his neck, all I can see (if I look really, really carefully) is the hairs on the top of his head moving just a little, as if they are being kissed by a light breeze.  

 

But it's cold outside, so all the windows are closed and the chimney flue is too.  So why, why would the hairs on the head of a poor, sick man move?

 

There can only be one explanation.

 

Death.

 

Death - laughing an evil, soul-wrenching laugh - is swinging his scythe back and forth, millimeters above Fluffy Bear's head.  

 

Why?  Because he can.  He's DEATH.

 

He's deciding, Death is.  

 

Now? [Swish!]

 

Or later? [Swish!]

 

Now? [Swish!]

 

Or later? [Swish!]

 

Poor, poor Fluffy Bear.  

 

But, wait!  It doesn't end there.

 

Sitting on the back of the sofa, leaning nonchalantly against the living room wall, sits, Azrael, the Archangel of Death.  A beautiful, beautiful man - stunningly awesome in that impossible way that only an angel can be.  It's almost painful, I imagine, to look at his shiny hair, his glowing skin, his square shoulders, his rock hard six pack, his petrifyingly huge... wings.

 

Even if Fluffy Bear tries to talk to Azrael, to ask him "Why?", to ask him "Why now?", he gets no reply.

 

Azrael sits, with a golden emery board, softly filing his perfectly manicured nails.

 

Occasionally, the slightest hint of annoyance flits across his face. If you weren't watching carefully, you'd miss it completely.  But the choir doesn't.

 

What choir, you ask, dear Diary?

 

The choir.  The Chorus of Angels!

 

No, no, this has nothing to do with Azrael.  These guys are in a totally different Heaven department.  They have a different manager, different Annual Performance Reviews and a different mission statement.  

 

They are far, far lower on the heavenly corporate ladder than Azrael is.  That's why, if they break into a requiem he doesn't happen to like, they switch to another one right quick.

 

And they're a shitload of the white robed, haloed buggers.  How they fit in our living room I'll never know.  Well, I guess that's the magic of heavenly creatures.  

 

They must sound (I can't hear them) really amazing.  Like those little boys, perhaps, with disturbingly high voices who sing at St Paul's cathedral whenever a member of the Royal Family gets hitched.  Or maybe they're more like one of those gospel choirs, big boned (I'm phrasing that kindly), covered in large, purple robes, with their hands raised high in the air.  Or maybe it's a more formal affair.  Thirty to sixty-something white folks, the kinds you'd find in German cathedral, hymn books in hand, serious faces, with one guy at the back with a voice like a bassoon.

 

With all of this, can you imagine how awful poor Fluffy Bear feels?

 

Poor, poor Fluffy Bear.

 

Poor, poor, poor Fluffy Bear.

 

He can barely see or hear the TV to figure out why Danno ought to book the perp in Hawaii Five-O. 

 

And so, naturally, it's up to me to comfort him.  I must stroke his head, and squeeze his hand, and pour his apple juice and get ice and fast forward the DVR through the ads and make a little dry toast and heat up the hotpack in the microwave and keep the dogs from licking his face and get some Immodium and put the fan on in the bathroom and spray the air freshener and warm the hot pack again and get fresh ice.

 

Because it's the least I can do.... right?

 

 

 

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