Thursday evening, The Boyfriend arrived home from work sick. And I mean, sick.
This wasn’t the man flu. There was no shuffling around the house and woe is me cries with a baby pout planted on his puss. This was real. The Boyfriend was as pasty as wall paint and burning up. I put him to bed and did my best to keep the fever down with cold cloths and aspirin. And before he fell asleep, I told him that under no circumstances was he to go to work on Friday, just to avoid having that argument in the morning.
Naturally he actually tried to go to work. I was out walking Fifty and when I came back, The Boyfriend was sitting at the table fully dressed, although unable to move any further. I yelled at him a bit and gave him two options, “couch or bed, choose and go.”
I made a bed for him on a couch and put on the TV and busied myself with my day. Every few minutes I’d check on him and try to give him juice and soup, both of which he refused. If The Boyfriend refuses food, he’s sick (RE: food whore) and the fever didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Getting worried I asked if we should go to the doctor.
“No, he’ll come here.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. House call. The doctor makes house calls?
“Yes, in the afternoon, if you’re really sick.”
Judging by the fever and the pasty complexion, I decided The Boyfriend was really sick and told him to call for the doctor. (My French isn’t quite there yet, not sure how to say pasty face).
This is what the doctor said;
“I can’t. I’m too busy. Try another medic. Good luck.”
I love the good luck part. It’s like, ‘gee, hope you make it’.
This was not good. The Boyfriend needed to see the doctor but was in no condition to drive himself. I’d have to drive. Time for me to step up and get over my fear of driving here.
I drove to the doctor in Banon through those tiny crazy topsy turvy back roads. And not at a snail’s pace either. At a, ‘I’m from Texas, now get the hell out of my way pace’. But very safe. I had my 6’2″ baby on board, precious cargo. Fear of French country roads has been conquered.
And it worked out well, because across the street from the doctor is one of those quaint little tourist shops (Ladies, you know the type I’m talking about, they don’t really sell anything of substance, just lovely, pretty little things that we like to look at for a few weeks). As soon as The Boyfriend left the waiting room and stepped in to see the doctor, I was out the door and across the street. But not before lovingly, “I’ll be right here when you get out”.
I bought some L’Occitane hand soap and hand lotion for the kitchen sink, and a hand creme for my purse.
image: google
I love L’Occitane and it’s great because it’s so much cheaper here than in one of their shops in Dublin or New York, but still a bit expensive buying from a tourist shop. If I want L’Occitane, we’ll go to the factory in Manosque so I’m not in any circumstances to buy L’Occitane anyplace else (instructions from you know who). But it’s ok. If The Boyfriend sees it, I’ll just tell him he was hallucinating from the fever. But I deserved a reward, I rescued The Boyfriend, and conquered the road. I don’t think a little hand creme is too much to ask for.
The good news is now I’m over my fear of driving here and I can stop being a hermit.
The bad news, Provence, watch out.
bisou
P.S.
In case you’re wondering, The Boyfriend is feeling much better now. It was a viral infection, but he’s been pumped full of medication. He spent the weekend on the couch playing video games. I got to play nurse maid. How very fun for me.
It's Me, Sara Louise 
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