You don’t look sick.

From the first time I had to report out at school until I retired, I’ve heard that phrase. Never liked it, never understood it.

I once asked how sick I needed to look to have the flu. Stuff oozing from my nostrils, eyes blearing red and weepy, skin pale to the point of translucent, a faint aura around me brought on by the heavy fever? Should I be heaving the remains of my last meal all over the floor?
Oh, I could go on, but I think you get the idea.

I guess I’m a little sensitive because as I sit and watch my beautiful wife sleeping through another episode of CSIsomething, I ache, because she doesn’t look sick.

The magic potion Megace was like Emeril’s Bam…kicking her appetite up a notch. She’s been drinking hot tea and earlier had an apple. Her skin is smooth, the color good (so far as I can tell color anyway) and right now she has a look that can only be described as peaceful.

Not sick.

But I know the truth.

And the deception throws me into such a tailspin and if I try really hard, I can stare at her and for just a second, I can make myself believe it is a dream, this is not really happening. But my heart won’t let that second grow any longer.

I pull the blanket around her and kiss her good night.

She doesn’t look sick
and if you see me out and about, I probably don't look heartbroken