Ask your mother. I never got sick. I don’t believe in sick. It doesn’t look good on me.
It leaves little skin chips across my reddened nose, has me running around with a roll of toilet paper because I refuse to buy tissues when I have all those rolls in the cabinet.
Sickness takes my appetite and my ability to smell and taste food. Which makes me very mad since I bought those fruits and vegetables that require care and digestion by someone who eats them with great appreciation.
Sickness makes the world a lot slower since things match the motion of my fuzzy, clogged head. It makes me beg my pardon in conversations, makes me too tired to sleep, and less helpful which I personally detest. It makes my voice sound funny, and in my work voice is important.
So, mark the record, Bryce. Let it show that every single time that you have been sick thus far—with the exception of that battle with acid reflux when you first moved in—that I have changed my routine. Now, I do get sick and usually half way into your body’s fight. It’s the new clock by which I set my immunity’s collapse. May the phrase, “You make me sick,” be evidence, more proof, that I love you.