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Why do i get so annoyed when my husband is sick

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My most notable shortcoming, however, is this: I am a resentful nurse with an antagonistic bedside manner. When my husband is sick or hurt, it actually makes me kind of angry. Early in our relationship, he noticed that whenever he caught a cold, I became emotionally distant. I went through the caretaking motions, but I was chilly about it.

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How to Survive When Your Spouse Has the Flu

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My most notable shortcoming, however, is this: I am a resentful nurse with an antagonistic bedside manner. When my husband is sick or hurt, it actually makes me kind of angry. Early in our relationship, he noticed that whenever he caught a cold, I became emotionally distant. I went through the caretaking motions, but I was chilly about it.

This dysfunction remained unchallenged, explained away as a bad mood that just happened to coincide with his moments of physical weakness , until a more serious caretaking failure brought the issue to a head. One January, when my husband, also a writer, was teaching in Vermont, we decided to climb an ice-covered mountain in city footwear, and he slipped and dislocated his shoulder. In the accident's immediate aftermath, I was his tireless advocate—I battled his work liaison, a woman who announced that she "didn't use Western doctors" and clearly didn't want us to either, and took him to an ER, where I procured excellent Western painkillers for him.

But once his arm was in a sling and his prescription filled, I punched out. I was done and thought he should be done too. In his version of this story, I "made" him drive his stick-shift Toyota home on slick back roads with the use of only his left hand. I probably did do this. Two weeks later, packing for a trip to Paris, when he moped about the fashion inconvenience of wearing a sling, I snapped.

Get over it. That spring, when we were hiking the Adirondacks, he balked at climbing a nontechnical rock face, because his shoulder, though mostly healed, still dangerously compromised his sense of balance.

We took an easier trail. I fumed all the way to the summit, where he finally confronted me: You're mad because I hurt myself, and I don't want to risk hurting myself further? If pressed to explain why, when the person I loved most in the world needed me, I was not gamely there for him, I might say that I hail from a stoic New England family where sickness, pain, and distress were viewed as optional impediments to enjoying one's day.

I've been bred to show contempt for any form of human weakness, because all ailments can and should be conquered through sheer mental fortitude. But another explanation might be this: It is only when my husband is sick that I am forced to occupy a "typical" spousal gender role.

I must cook the food and wash the clothing and take care of the children while my husband lies in bed. But usually he doesn't lie in bed, unless he's barely alive, because he doesn't want to deal with the fallout of me. He forces himself to be "fine" when he's not to spare me the pain of being, for a day or two, his wife.

It might surprise some who know me as a friend—or those people who know me as the stranger who helped them reassemble the contents of their purses when they've scattered throughout the train—to learn that I am a reluctant, sulky caretaker. That I do not naturally possess, toward my family, an atomic-strength maternal instinct.

As my daughter says when I fail to respond to her skinned knee with the appropriate gravitas, "Way to care, Mom. Even if I'm wearing a party dress and heels, I'll help a woman lug her sooty-wheeled triplet stroller up five flights of stairs. When my daughter was only a month old, I picked up an old man pushing his dead motorbike along the roadside and shoved his bike into the back of my car even though its handlebars poked within millimeters of my daughter's screaming face. In other words, I am far more willing to unresentfully caretake for the people outside my home than I am for the people in it.

My first book editor was similarly wired. When her writers came to New York, she'd take their boots to be resoled, help them pick out clothing, and treat them to lunch and a daring new haircut. When she died, her memorial service was attended by hundreds of people she'd helped over the years, person after person trekking to the podium to sing her custodial praises. And yet, as we filed out of the auditorium at the conclusion of her service, I heard a man whisper to his friend, "I feel sorry for her children.

I wrote him off as a crackpot. But a second incident made me wonder if this overheard snippet of sotto voce bitchiness spoke to a universally shared disdain. My brother and I, both home for a summer visit, drove to pick up my grandmother at the airport. As usual, she'd made a lifelong pal on her flight, a stranger who hugged us in the waiting area and said, "Your grandmother is the most amazing person. My grandmother had spent the flight coaching this new friend through her worry, spinning out for her the possible scenarios she'd encounter and how to deal with each of them.

She was eventually invited to the wedding. Witnessing this stranger's gratitude, I was proud, but later that evening, my brother remarked, "It must have been very hard to grow up with a mother like that. Our mother worshipped our grandmother. She was, by all accounts, the most fun, vivacious, kindhearted person in all of Door County, Wisconsin, the Gandhi of the Great Lakes Peninsulas. She'd been a homemaker but was beloved by many more people than just her family.

Regardless, I did not press my brother to explain at the time. I've never pressed him. I think I now know what he might have meant. Women like my grandmother, like my editor—like me—prefer to exercise our maternal instincts in the world at large. It's less dangerous, less threatening, to be a caretaker in areas where such behavior is not psychologically mandated. This predilection sounds harmless enough. Apparently it's not. A caretaking investment in one's own family that trumps all others is still a gender expectation we've yet to overturn.

The woman who refuses to be single-mindedly committed, from an emotional standpoint, to her husband or children remains an unsettling figure.

My first husband and I fought over this exact terrain, though I wouldn't have predicted this when we first met and talked about his tomato garden. A charismatic bluster of a man with a shotgun under his bed, he also liked to wrap his hair in a kerchief and nightly mop our floors. He cooked and picked out drapes and bought me skirts at sample sales. He was refreshingly impossible to categorize, falling somewhere between lumberjack and charwoman.

But I was away from home a lot I worked as a waitress , and this started to bother him. During a disagreement about whether I should go to an artists' colony for six weeks, he said, "I just hope that someday, when we have kids, you'll be able to put our family first.

I did not find this comment retrograde or chauvinistic; at the time, I merely found it bewildering. Thirteen years later, I'm less bewildered. Beneath his complaint lurked a valid emotional unease, a red flag raised to signal our key incompatibility: He was not a husband for whom a wife with a willingness to leave home for long stretches of time was tolerable.

When we fought, "the marriage" was often cited, as though it were a third party, almost like a boss, to whom we were beholden. Problematically, we interpreted our obligations to it differently.

He saw my temporary leave-takings as abandonments, as my shirking the expected physical closeness and intensity of the marriage. I saw them as natural extensions of the marriage. These tend not to be resolvable differences of perception. We eventually divorced. More than a decade later, I still feel guilt over our failure to align realities, because when realities don't align—especially when they fiercely don't align—you self-protectively conclude, One of us is crazy.

Often enough I worry that the crazy one was and remains me. I've internalized my first husband's worries about my abilities to adequately care for my family. I have asked myself: Do my loved ones suffer from my outgoingness? Do I dedicate more caretaking energy to friends and strangers than I do to my own family? And if the answer is yes, why on earth would I do that? I have some answers.

Their identities didn't begin and end with their families, regardless of whether they had careers save a brief premarital turn as a journalist, my grandmother never did. Not that there's anything wrong with identifying oneself in that manner—now a wife and mother myself, I better understand the bravery that entails—but when I was younger, I sought other role models.

And so I want to provide that variety of role model for my children: You are not my entire reason for existing. This is what my life facts say. But it's not just about life facts. I have a close friend who would seem to be the preeminent gender warrior she's the majority breadwinner, and her husband does most of the child care and housework , but she's elevated caretaking to an extreme-sports level—and looks it.

She is literally physically wasted by her familial exertions. When her daughter has a tantrum, she comforts her for 45 minutes. Every minor spousal upset is grounds for a daylong psychological summit. She's attentive and empathic to the point of self-erasure. Of course there are reasons why she does this. It's all a balancing act, as we're repeatedly told—usually after we've fallen off the beam.

My point, though, is that I justify my failure to focus exclusively on my family the following way: I am embodying a way to be in the world. I am my own person. You too need to be your own person. However, the kind of role model I am has its limits. There are dangers. Also—as I realized this spring when my husband became scarily, possibly life-threateningly sick—it's a bit of a lie, this stance of mine, a neat ideological cover-up.

I'm scared to be alone and so inoculate myself by always being a little bit alone. In other words, my abundant, far-flung kindness is a force field. It buffers me from the future tragedies hidden within my own family—from a husband who will probably die before me, if genetics are any predictor, and children who will outgrow their need of me, no matter how much vicarious pain I experience over their skinned knees.

It prevents me from being hurt by them when they die or decide, as they ultimately will, that I'm not their entire reason for existing. This is not just me refusing a gender category. This is me refusing heartbreak. I do not caretake because I am taking care. I am taking care of myself.

If you’re sick, then I’m mad

It appears JavaScript is disabled. To get the most out of the website we recommend enabling JavaScript in your browser. Why do some men appear to be soooo much sicker than us, and why is it so fundamentally annoying? These are two questions I will pretend to address while ridiculing the 'stronger' sex for the purpose of this article. I would think never, ever aloud, unless I wanted close contact with the wooden spoon, ' what a heartless bitch'.

Dear Abby: I feel like a terrible wife when my husband gets sick — not majorly sick, but with a run-of-the-mill cold. Men can be terrible babies when they are sick.

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8 Annoying Things Husbands Do When They’re Sick That Only Wives Can Relate To

For the third year in a row, Michael Kinberg was sick during the holidays. But this time, when Kinberg, a Los Angeles screenwriter, was under the weather around the Christmas holidays, exit Florence Nightingale. Enter Mommie Dearest. For Ford, it was overwhelming. About the only thing clear is how much busier the one still standing is going to be for the next few days. They get angry. After all, we are the ones who experience every moment of sweat and toil we put into the home, while we cannot possibly know everything the other person is contributing -- even if we tried, which we rarely do. The emotional deficit leaves us more vulnerable to losing our tempers, he added. Some couples interpret a flash of anger at a sick partner as a sign of a doomed relationship, but this is rarely the case, psychologists say.

“In Sickness and in Health”- When Your Spouse Is Ill

She spent hours scouring the internet for information. She stayed strong for her two young children and her husband of eight years. But she also experienced frustration and stress when dealing with doctors and the unknown. Vivian and I attend the same Bible study in suburban Chicago, and she says her faith in God and spending time in prayer pulled her through this difficult period. As she drew closer to God, she also fell more deeply in love with her husband and wanted to give him as much of herself as possible.

Anyone get angry when their husband gets sick?

If your best friend in the world, your lover, your life-long mate, has been hit with the flu, you might suddenly find yourself taking care of a whimpering, demanding, annoying childlike adult. This doesn't mean the end of your marriage. While it isn't easy, you can survive your spouse's flu.

Man Flu: Why Is It So Fundamentally Annoying?

I think he wants me to go sit in another room, other end of the house. He did this the other day when he was up late, nautious. Yes, I am — I feel terrible and in my mind, I always thought a husband would want to help you any way they can when sick. I would be heartbroken if my partner called me that.

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I have always found this to be true. I have been in love as an adult three times in my life and each time was unexpected. I suppose you could say the same for chronic illness and pain. It blindsides you much like love but only leaves chaos in its wake, like a bad break-up that never ends. Being chronically ill can change everything in your life, but one thing that usually gets hit the most is your relationships, specifically the one with your romantic partner if you have one. The changing is hard, frustrating, and painful for both of you.

What Makes a Good Wife?

The subject who is truly loyal to the Chief Magistrate will neither advise nor submit to arbitrary measures. This article was published more than 5 years ago. Some information in it may no longer be current. Have a story to tell? I want you to feel heartbroken when you are done with this piece. No, actually I want you to feel devastated and angry. And I do not know why. Have you ever felt that you are trapped in solitary confinement under an annoyingly-low ceiling painted with cloudy figures of people?

Feb 10, - Why do I want to put my narcissistic husband on blast so badly? I'm not a Why do narcissists get angry when their significant other gets sick? 1, can I deal with my husband's difficult behavior.

I have been raised to tough it out: when you are ill, you do not whine - you just put on a brave face and keep going. I have a high pain threshold and never take any days off sick. My husband is the exact opposite.

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For some reason, when men get sick they are totally and completely helpless and you now have one more child to take care of. If your husband comes down with some sort of sickness, you better be prepared to run around the house fulfilling all sorts of requests. The requests are never ending, so be prepared to not sit down for longer than five minutes at a time. Along with all those requests your husband is making comes a very large expectation with each one.






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