This has been EVERYwhere, but it's worth showing again, because this is our life right now, sans the charming English accent.
Noah has had a cough for two weeks. He refused to go to the doctor. This is the classic Symptom Number One of a man-cold: Refusal to obtain medical intervention. Because if one receives treatment from a medical professional, one of two unacceptable things will happen: Either he'll be told that he has a regular cold and should get over it soon, or he'll be given a prescription for modern pharmaceuticals designed to rid him of his reason to complain.
Symptom Number Two: Irrational irritability often accompanied by persistent disagreeability.
Yesterday, the 'rents and I began a discussion about the church we visited together, a church Noah and I have been visiting on and off for about a year. We all agreed that there's a church in Greensboro, about 45 minutes away, that we all feel more comfortable with for a number of reasons. Of course, the drive is a definite downside, both for the toddler we must transport and for the possibility of greater involvement.
However, instead of agreeing to go for a visit to that other church in Greensboro, Noah immediately declared that we could go to whatever church we wanted, but he wouldn't be coming. Not because he disagrees with the church's principles or dislikes the leadership or anything fundamentally troubling, but because he feels that driving that far when there's a perfectly mediocre church nearby is—hold on a second, I want to get this right, so eloquent was his reasoning—ah, yes..."dumb."
Which leads to Symptom Number Three: Inability to hear, not to be confused with actual deafness.
No matter how perfectly I framed my argument for visiting the farther-away church, no matter the ideas my dad threw out for a solution, no logic could penetrate Noah's ear canals, so swollen were they by the insidious man-cold pathogens.
Shortly thereafter, when I realized what was going on (rapid onset of man-cold), I asked, "Should you not take the day off work tomorrow and go see the doctor?" to which he replied, "No...I'll tough through it...for...my kids [cough]."
A bit later he did break down and take some NyQuil, after which we bore witness to Symptom Number Four: Sudden sensitivity to medicinal doses of alcohol resulting in near-unconsciousness. I made the mistake of trying to ask a question about the iPod while he languished on his pallet on the couch. It took three attempts to rouse him from his feverish reverie, and then I was accosted for making him repeat himself because "it hurts to talk loud."
I then did the kind thing: I called him a poor little bunny and ordered him to bed.
Needless to say, he did take the day off work and made a doctor appointment. Last I checked (with my mom—I daren't text message him directly), he was napping on the couch.
EDITED TO ADD: Somehow he's convinced the doctor to say he has walking pneumonia. Which means? Indefinite man-cold.