This year, Hubby really went all out for my birthday. He got me everything on my Amazon wish list. Every single item. It wasn’t much of a surprise—after all, I sent him the list with “Buy These” in the subject line—but, hey, at my age, surprises are overrated. My heart can only take so much excitement before I need a nap.

He even made me Martha White birthday-cake muffins for breakfast, since we had two leftover pies from Thanksgiving and didn’t need any more desserts.

Then came the unexpected gift—the one I absolutely did not want. His upper respiratory infection. Hubby had been sporting a nagging cough for days before Thanksgiving, the kind that makes people slowly edge away from you in the grocery store checkout line. But because we share everything in this marriage—finances, responsibilities, the remote—he also shared his germs. I woke up the day after Thanksgiving—my birthday—with a raging sore throat. And by Saturday, I had the dreaded “basketball head.” You know, when your skull feels like it’s been inflated to regulation size and you half expect someone to dribble you up the hallway.

We made a pilgrimage to Walmart and loaded up on DayQuil, NyQuil, Mucinex, Vitamin C, Zinc, sinus meds—basically the entire cold-and-flu aisle. I was grateful for the self-checkouts so no innocent employee had to handle our pestilence pile. We were one shopping cart away from being a CDC case study.

Now, I always know how my colds progress, but somehow, I remain delusionally optimistic that this time the crud will magically vanish in 24 hours. Spoiler: it never does. By Sunday, the cough arrived—the deep, chesty kind that makes you sound like a Dickensian orphan—and I knew bronchitis was moving in, probably bringing luggage. Since my bronchitis never leaves without a firm shove from antibiotics and steroids, I skipped the “let’s wait and see” nonsense and raided my home pharmacy. Honestly, I keep enough drugs in stock to treat a small village.

By Monday, I developed laryngitis. This is a problem because I can’t talk, and Hubby can’t hear. Even on good days, I have to repeat myself three times. Yes, even when he claims his hearing aids are working, I’m not convinced they’re anything more than expensive ear jewelry. Either that or his automatic default to everything I’ve said for the past ten years is “Huh?” By the third repeat, I’m yelling just to survive. Then he looks wounded and says, “Why are you yelling at me?” It’s a vicious cycle.

Now that I can only whisper and he can only hear foghorns, our communication makes a train wreck look organized. We could star in our own sitcom: The Whisperer and the Deaf Guy. Stay tuned for the season finale, where someone finally understands what the other one said.

In a moment of weakness, I Googled “How to get rid of laryngitis,” hoping for a miracle cure involving chocolate or at least caffeine. The answer? Rest your voice. Well, thank you, Captain Obvious. If I need to tell Hubby something important, I either have to shred what’s left of my vocal cords or text him. And since I despise texting, I keep whisper-yelling like a haunted-house employee.

So here we are, with coughing duets at 2 a.m., and praying that tomorrow we wake up restored. I repeat my favorite Bible promise: “It came to pass.”
Meanwhile, although I was very clear in my birthday wishes this year, I apparently forgot to specify, “No contagious diseases, please.” Remind me next year to add that to the list—right under “chocolate,” “comfy socks,” and “a functioning respiratory system.”