catastrophe

Mr 747 is sick. Stop the Earth rotating on its axis please, we have a sick man on our hands.

After a debaucherous weekend in the bush (he proudly told me that the butler did say they broke the record for most beers consumed in the house in one sitting), he now has 'flu and a sore foot, which means, translated into Man Code: “I am both lame and dying.”

It's funny. But even the most silverback-alpha-of-all-males who save the world on a daily basis fear the terminal worst when their nose starts running.

We went to watch a movie on Sunday, with him limping pitifully across The Zone, while blowing his nose, and at the ticket counter, swear to God, he turns to me and speaks those unforgettable words, I have heard so many times before:
“I think I'm dying.”

This statement is one I've heard from the mouths of countless men before, so I wasn't overly surprised, however, one can't tell a guy to: “Pull yourself together and pop a Corenza C.” One has to switch to Man Code and speak in his language. One has to be Shakespearen about the whole affair, because that's evidentally what Amist A Man Being Sicketh and Dyingeth is all about.

“Oh my little bokdrolletjie. Are you going to make it through the movie without alerting NetCare for a stretcher and drip?”

Mr 747: No really, this just may be it. This could be the last thing we ever do together.
Peas: Oh no! What are we going to do? We really are in a pickle if you kick the bucket. Can I stroke your hair and swab your forehead?
Mr 747: Whose going to take care of you if I die?
Peas: If you die, I will die.
Mr 747: Well I better not die then.
Peas: And you better get your foot sorted out. What if they have to amputate?
Mr 747: Now that's a bit over the top don't you think?
Peas: Touché, MacBeth.

I am not his mum; I'm his ho. And I love being the on-death's-doorstep nurturer. But not forever. So let's hope my lame, dying dude gets better soon.

PS: He has written himself an obituary for his Facebook profile that I have to post if he does die.