The Truth Comes Out

SUNDAY-MONDAY

 

I love Sundays. Sometimes I love Mondays too. Sometimes I hate them both. Today just happens to be an 'I Love Sunday' day. Tiny stars still twinkle their fading light just in rhythm with the first orange/red hint of morning. Without yet tasting the heavenly flavor of dew covered grass, without holding on to the warmth of being spooned by Freddie's untanned  body, I rise, omit my shower, save it to do a little later with Freddie.

 

The familiar sound Mary, the still strong paper lady, makes when she walks up our driveway and softly lays the thick Sunday Magistrate on our top step, sends little spikes of pleasure down my back. She has been doing this for a four block square of houses for 20 years. Everybody knows her. I can't stop marveling at her stamina, enjoyment as she smiles, even on rainy, snowy days. Freddie and I have never had to call for a wet paper replacement. Heck, I think, for the umpteenth time, 'I couldn't do Mary's thankless job.

 

I take our paper into the living room and separate it carefully, making Freddie's pile and mine into totally different stacks. His sport section gets the prime top spot, followed by stock market reports, politics, then  entertainment, followed by coupons. He never messes up the coupons, cuts out his razor ads, deodorants, special mustards and theatre. My pile starts with school projects,  movies, t.v.,  puzzles, super market specials, Macy sales, recipes. It is all a prelude to our shower, our breakfast at Tommy's where they have the best french toast in the world and an endless pot of fantastic black coffee that seems to pour itself into my cup at least four times.

 

Sounds of shuffling slippered feet start down the stairs. I waste no time and start up. Together the warm shower water, the over-loaded body-wash on our shared sponge, almost clogs the drain. We revel in it, rinse off. I dry him with a soft oversized towel and he lovingly pats me down until my stomach starts to growl. That does it. Freddy puts his hand on my belly and laughs, tells me the growling tickles. Our day just takes wings and flies away. Two, three of them disappear and then, the one I knew would surely spring its thorned head in my face, hits me, hits Freddie. He doesn't feel like taking a shower, just wants to lie in bed and do nothing. His tawny color looks a bit yellowish to me but I say nothing about it. The toilet flushes more than usual. Freddie only wants a glass of O.J. and maybe an English muffin with orange marmalade on top. I slough this off, make little of it and serve him on a tray as if her were the king rooster.

 

It's Monday, and it happens to be one I hate. My husband feels worse, calls in sick. I baby him, pamper him with juices, camomile tea with raspberry preserves on crackers. His stomach hurts. His back hurts. With a wink in my eye, I ask if he's pregnant. I have quickly learned to hate Wednesdays too. Dr. Sarnoff sends Freddie for a series of tests that take ten days before he, with me driving, sees the doctor again.

 

The diagnosis is a shocker. My Freddie is c-o-n-s-t-i- p-a-t-ed. All he needs is what the doctor called a high colonic. I laugh, tell both of them not to ask me to give it. Dr. Sarnoff hands him written instructions for simple preparations. I stop at my usual super market, speak to their pharmacist who tells me to get Ducolax and a box of X Lax for Freddie and he'll be fine in the morning and Medicare won't have to pay $300 for what he will only charge us $4.25.

 

All comes out well. I make sure Freddie showers first before I climb in behind him.