When My Husband Got Sick, His Family Wouldn’t Stop Calling. When I Came Down With a Fever, He Went Fishing
The digital thermometer emitted three short, piercing beeps. Thirty-two-year-old Marina struggled to pull it out from under her arm and tried to focus her watery, fever-burning eyes on the narrow display. The numbers blurred, but there was no mistaking them: 39.1°C.
Marina pulled the heavy down comforter all the way up to her chin.
At that exact moment, she suddenly remembered, with extraordinary clarity and down to the smallest detail, how her husband Oleg had fallen ill about six months earlier.
Back then, his thermometer had displayed 37.4°C. And at that very second, a state of emergency on a national scale had been declared in their two-bedroom apartment.
“Marina…” A weak, broken voice came from the bedroom, as though someone were saying goodbye to life itself. “Come here. Now.”
Marina had rushed in from the kitchen, abandoning the half-cooked dinner. Oleg, a healthy thirty-four-year-old man weighing nearly ninety kilograms, was lying sprawled across the unmade bed with his arms spread wide.
“What happened?” she asked fearfully, hurrying over to him.
“Look.” With a trembling hand, as though offering her the most precious treasure in the world, he held out the digital thermometer. “Thirty-seven point four. I knew it. I started feeling chills at lunchtime.”
“Oleg, it’s only a slight fever,” Marina exhaled with relief, trying to smile. “It’s just a common cold. I’ll make you some tea with lemon, you can drink it, get some sleep, and—”
“What tea, Marina?!” he groaned indignantly and miserably, dramatically clutching his head. “My joints feel like a road roller has driven over me! You women don’t understand. Men have different physiology. We suffer ten times more when we have a fever! I’m seriously ill.”
Groaning, he rolled onto his side with the expression of a mortally wounded general and pulled the blanket up to his nose.
“Close the curtains, please. The light is cutting into my eyes. It hurts to look at anything. And bring me a cold, wet towel for my forehead. My head is about to split open.”
Every few minutes, he let out an exaggeratedly heavy sigh, demanding immediate rescue with his entire appearance.
But the worst part was not Oleg himself.
The worst part was his family’s reaction.
As soon as Marina’s mother-in-law, Valeria Petrovna, learned about the “tragedy,” she began calling Marina five or six times a day.
“Marinochka, did you make him broth? It absolutely has to be made from a farm-raised chicken. Store-bought chicken will ruin his stomach!” her anxious voice rang through the phone. “Did you give him vitamin C? Did you make cranberry juice? Oleg has had a very weak immune system since childhood. Any cold could cause complications with his heart! Don’t leave his side. Check his temperature every hour!”
And Marina did not leave his side.
She took unpaid leave from work. She ran to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy during a snowstorm because Oleg had decided he needed a particular brand of throat lozenges that they did not have at home. She brewed herbal remedies, made broth, replaced the damp towels on his forehead, and listened to his endless complaints about how difficult it was for him to breathe.
Her husband’s illness was sacred.
Now, staring at the 39.1°C displayed on her thermometer, Marina understood that no nurse had been assigned to her in this marriage.
It was Friday, the end of a long, exhausting workweek. The journey home on the overcrowded subway had felt like torture. Every sound struck her temples like a hammer, and the light hurt her eyes.
When she got home, she collapsed into sleep.
She was awakened by the loud slam of the front door and the sound of keys being thrown onto the table in the hallway. It was shortly after eight o’clock.
Oleg had returned.
Marina heard his heavy footsteps, but her husband did not enter the bedroom. He did not come in to find out why the apartment was dark or where his wife was.
His steps headed confidently toward the kitchen.
The refrigerator door opened and slammed shut. Then it opened again, this time with obvious irritation.
A minute later, the bedroom door flew open, allowing the harsh hallway light to flood into the room. Marina painfully squeezed her eyes shut.
“Marina, I don’t understand. Where’s dinner?” Oleg’s voice was dissatisfied and demanding. “Did you just go to bed? It’s Friday. I’m hungry as a wolf. Work was a nightmare today. I thought I’d at least get a proper meal at home.”
Marina struggled to part her dry, cracked lips.
“Oleg… I feel terrible,” she rasped, attempting to raise herself onto her elbows. “My temperature is over thirty-nine. I have chills. Please bring me a glass of water and some acetaminophen from the medicine cabinet in the kitchen.”
Oleg froze in the doorway.
Not a trace of concern or sympathy appeared on his face.
“You always get sick at the worst possible time,” he said, clicking his tongue and dramatically rolling his eyes. “You were perfectly fine this morning! Everyone gets sick in the spring, but why did you let your temperature get this high? You could have taken a pill at work.”
“What pill, Oleg?” Marina croaked weakly, feeling hot tears of hurt and helplessness rise in her eyes. “My temperature is almost forty. I can’t even stand up long enough to pour myself a glass of water.”
But he seemed not to hear her.
He did not approach the bed or even touch her burning forehead. Instead, he waved his hand dismissively, turned around, and silently returned to the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, Marina heard the intercom ring. Oleg had ordered food.
Soon, the apartment filled with the thick, sharp smell of pepperoni pizza. Because of her high fever, the odor made Marina feel even more nauseated.
Oleg ate in the kitchen while watching a show loudly on his tablet. When he finally returned to the bedroom, he silently took off his clothes, lay down on the very edge of the bed, turned toward the wall, and almost immediately began snoring.
On Saturday, Marina woke with pain throughout her entire body. Her head was splitting, and her mouth was so dry that her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
It was six in the morning.
Strange noises were coming from the hallway: thumping, the rustling of heavy fabric, and the clinking of metal. It sounded as though someone were energetically and hurriedly packing their things.
Barely able to overcome her terrible weakness, Marina raised herself against the pillows.
Oleg appeared in the bedroom doorway.
He was wearing his favorite warm camouflage outfit. In one hand, he held a large metal thermos. In the other, he carried a plastic box filled with fishing equipment. He smelled of freshly brewed coffee and men’s cologne.
He had made coffee only for himself.
“Where are you going?” Marina’s voice came out as a pitiful, quiet rustle.
Oleg stopped, adjusted his grip on the thermos, and looked at his wife as though her illness were an irritating stain on his perfect weekend.
“Fishing with the guys,” he answered cheerfully. “We made plans on Wednesday.”
“Listen, you’re going to be lying in bed anyway. You can’t even get up. These are my only days off. What am I supposed to do, sit beside you and stare at the wall?”
Marina stared at him with eyes widened by fever and shock, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“Oleg… I feel very ill. My temperature won’t come down. I might need an ambulance. Please don’t go.”
Her husband’s face twisted into a grimace of displeasure.
“Oh, Marina, stop being so dramatic! It’s just the flu. I talked to Mom this morning and told her you were sick. She said I should go to the lake and get some fresh air. Otherwise, I might catch it from you while we’re trapped together inside these four walls. I have to go back to work on Monday and submit the quarterly report. I can’t afford to get sick. Take care of yourself. Call me if anything happens, but reception is bad at the lake, so I might be out of range.”
Oleg turned around, stomped heavily down the hallway in his massive boots, kissed his wife on the cheek, and left.
The locks clicked one after another.
Marina was left completely alone in the empty apartment.
For the next two days, Marina survived on her own.
She had to learn how to order fever reducers and antibiotics from a pharmacy delivery service. She made cranberry juice while supporting herself against the countertop with one hand. She also arranged for a doctor to visit the apartment by herself.
Oleg returned late on Sunday evening.
He was cheerful and rosy-cheeked, smelling of campfire smoke, dampness, and fish. He threw his equipment into the hallway, entered the bedroom, loudly sniffed the air, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Ugh, it’s so stuffy in here. It smells like a hospital room. Couldn’t you have opened a window? So, how are you doing? Still alive?”
“Alive,” Marina answered in an even, completely empty voice without looking up from her book.
Oleg noticed nothing unusual in her tone.
He happily went to the kitchen to eat the groceries she had ordered, calling over his shoulder to tell her how incredible the fishing had been at dawn.
Marina recovered and returned to work a week later.
But she was different.
Not a single drop remained of the caring, bustling wife who had once been willing to abandon everything for her husband’s comfort.
She had understood one simple truth: trying to prove to a selfish person that he was selfish was a waste of energy.
Their marriage had ended that Saturday when the door closed behind him.
She stopped being his mother, his nurse, and his unpaid servant.
Because of his extraordinary emotional blindness and complete obsession with himself, her husband did not even notice the profound change in her. He sincerely believed that everything had returned to normal and that his wife had simply become a little quieter.
About a month passed.
At lunchtime on a rainy Friday, Oleg called her.
“Marina, I finally got sick yesterday. I caught a chill at the construction site. I feel like my temperature is already through the roof. I’m coming home early. Prepare everything for me. I’m going straight to bed. I have no strength.”
Marina said nothing and ended the call.
Oleg really did come home early that day. He practically collapsed through the apartment door. He barely managed to pull off his wet boots, threw his jacket directly onto the ottoman, and shuffled toward the bedroom.
“Marina, I’m home. Make me some Theraflu, please, but don’t add too much water. And bring me the thermometer,” he groaned, dropping heavily onto the sofa in the living room.
He leaned his head back against a cushion and closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar service.
He expected his wife to start bustling around, the kettle to begin boiling, a damp towel to appear, and caring hands to check his temperature.
The bedroom door quietly opened, and the sound of heels tapping against the hardwood floor filled the apartment.
Oleg opened one eye and froze.
Marina emerged from the room.
But this was not a worried wife carrying a thermometer.
Marina looked stunning.
She was wearing an elegant black dress that flattered her figure. Her hair was perfectly styled, an exquisite trail of expensive perfume followed her, and flawless red lipstick covered her lips.
She stood in front of the hallway mirror and calmly slipped into her finest camel-colored cashmere coat with graceful movements.
Oleg raised himself onto his elbows, unable to understand what was happening.
“Where… where are you going?” he rasped, watching her fasten the buttons of her coat. “I’m sick! I have a fever!”
Marina turned toward him.
Her face was perfectly calm. There was no anger or vengeful triumph in her eyes.
There was only the cold, distant emptiness with which one might look at a complete stranger standing in line at a grocery store.
“The medicine cabinet is in the upper kitchen drawer. The kettle is on the stove, and the Theraflu is on the shelf behind the tea.”
“What medicine cabinet?!” Oleg’s voice broke into an indignant squeal. “I can’t get up! I’m sick!”
“I already messaged your mother,” Marina continued just as calmly, pulling on her leather gloves. “She’ll call you soon and explain how to treat yourself. She says you need to drink cranberry juice. You can make some when you feel better. I have theater tickets with the girls, and we have a table reserved at a restaurant.”
She placed her hand on the front-door handle and gave her husband one final, icy look.
“You’re going to be lying down anyway. You can’t even get up. And I’m not going to waste my day off. Take care of yourself. Call me if anything happens, but I’ll turn off my phone at the theater, so I’ll be out of range.”
Oleg opened his mouth to say something, but no words came.
He sat on the sofa, sweaty, red-faced, and pathetic, watching his comfortable world collapse before his eyes.
Marina took the elevator downstairs and stepped outside.
The autumn wind struck her face, but Marina did not feel cold. She walked through the illuminated evening city, breathing deeply, without experiencing a single drop of remorse or a single ounce of guilt.
She felt only absolute, intoxicating freedom.
She was no longer a servant or a convenient function in someone else’s life.
And she planned to return to the apartment only to collect her belongings.
Is a woman obligated to play the role of a devoted nurse and forget about herself for the sake of someone who coldly abandoned her when she was helpless?
And is there any point in preserving a family in which your health is considered “your problem,” while your husband’s runny nose becomes a global catastrophe?
What would you have done in Marina’s place?
