For your own good

It might have been the Tshwane water I didn’t drink. The water that apparently went without chlorination for nearly three weeks, while residents were left to assume that drinking remained one of its intended uses. 

It might have been something I ate. Or just a regular buggy-virus-thing that comes from nowhere, torments you for as long as it can, and then quietly retreats without so much as a hint of regret. 

Whatever it was, it wasn’t my finest hour. I was sick and sad and, dare I say it, vulnerable. Aware of my propensity for melodrama, I tried to suffer as quietly as possible, so as not to alarm those who might worry about me. 

I needn’t have bothered. Because, according to my wife, my stomach bug was my fault. Somewhere between whatever had entered my digestive system and its determined and creative attempts to leave, a finding of personal negligence was made. 

And she was angry. Really angry. 

Through the haze of cramps, I could make out phrases like “You need to get your act together!” and “You need to take your health seriously!” 

There might have been more, but the immediate demands of the illness, together with the magnificence of a bathroom door that locks, spared me the rest. For once, my stomach and I had a shared interest. 

I had been hoping for sympathy. Apparently, I was due a performance review. 

Once behind the door, I considered how quickly concern can become an accusation. Someone we love becomes ill and we begin assembling the case against them. What they ate. How little they slept. The appointment they postponed. By the time we’ve finished, the patient could reasonably ask whether they need a doctor or an advocate. 

I recognise the impulse. I’m less enthusiastic about recognising it in myself. 

It’s especially tempting when the person has ignored good advice. There is something satisfying about being proved right, even while insisting that all you want is for them to get better. The trick is to deliver “I told you so” in a tone that suggests medical concern. 

But I wonder whether some of the anger comes from being frightened. 

When someone close to us is unwell, we’re reminded that we have less control than we’d like. Finding something they did wrong gives us something to work with. A mistake can be corrected. A husband can be instructed. Randomness is less responsive to a stern conversation. 

We do this beyond our marriages, too. When our child trips, we rush to pick them up, check that nothing is broken, and then substitute emotional pain for what might be lacking physically. Someone loses a job, gets scammed, or finds themselves in financial trouble, and we want the details. Sometimes because we care. Sometimes, I suspect, because we’re looking for the decision that separates their life from ours. 

If we can find it, we can reassure ourselves that we would have known better. 

Meanwhile, the person telling us may simply have wanted somewhere to put their distress for a few minutes. 

I can’t claim to know precisely what was behind my wife’s anger. She has access to a substantial archive of my behaviour. She may reasonably object to my presenting myself as a quiet and undemanding patient. Still, even when advice is warranted, there should surely be a small interval in which sympathy gets the floor. 

I’m happy to discuss my contribution to the problem. 

Preferably once I can leave the bathroom.