People who have known me for a year or more have often commented that I am a nice person. In fact, several have gone so far as to tell me I am a good mother and wife.
They are wrong.
They might have been right once. They might even have been right 10 days ago but not now.
I am a terrible wife and mother.
Because, when my poor sick husband and daughter, my lifeblood, my loved ones, cough . . . . I have thoughts of murder. Mayhem. Mutilation. Other "m" words.
I love them beyond measure but as an auditory person, every time a person coughs, it's like being poked in the arm by a rude person or slapped upside the head by an annoying one. I'd like to ignore it. I'd like to overcome it. I'd like for my compassion and sympathy for their ongoing illness to sweep across me, wiping out the irritation.
It ain't happenin' yet.
Last night I slept in the living room so I wouldn't have to hear them coughing upstairs. Gave up the warm, roomy, cozy bed for the chilly, short, leather couch.
It was worth it.
Of course, it doesn't help that my sons are still coughing as well. It doesn't help that I wheeze whenever I breathe in and out and occasionally the wheeze blossoms into my own coughing.
If I could turn off my ears, just for a while, I would. If I could not wince internally every single damn time one of these people coughs, I would. If I could slip liberal doses of cough suppressant in their food, I would.
See? Told you. You thought WAY wrong.