My Very First Valentine's Day

So I've been sick. I have been sick for quite awhile actually. I started feeling ill last Tuesday or Wednesday, but made it until Thursday afternoon before I allowed myself to leave work. The flower delivery had just come for Valentine's Day and I wasn't on the list. I didn't think I would be—it's too expensive a gesture for our budget—but when the rounds had come and I had nothing else to hold out for, I went home with a fever.

We never talked about our expectations for Valentine's Day. I had never had a real one before, so I didn't really know what to expect. The one I had in college, Valentine's Day came within a week of our six-month anniversary, so we decided to beat the crowds and just celebrate our anniversary instead. The one I had after college, I was in a long-distance relationship, so we celebrated the weekend before. This was my first honest-to-god, I love you and will see you on the actual day, Valentine's Day.

Scott woke me up in the bedroom at 6:30 pm. "You're hot."

"Ugh, no I'm not."

"No, I mean, you're hot. As in feverish."

"Oh."

Scott left the bedroom and headed to the kitchen, "Do you want your gifts?"

I didn't. Because if I get them now, then it's over; nothing else to look forward to. I yawned and stretched. Getting up from naps is pretty easy for me, but my eyelids felt... bloated.

Scott returned with a glass of ice water and handed it to me. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "I didn't know where you wanted to go to dinner, so I called and made reservations at three different places. One is at 8, another is at 8:30, and the last one is at 9:30. Your choice."

"Aww." All week he had been complaining about Valentine's Day and its conspiracy, blah, blah, fueled by women for women, blah. But in the end, he came through.

I got up to take a shower, hoping the hot steam of the bath would relieve some of the pressure I felt on my face and chest. I kept standing under the stream of water waiting to feel better, but instead I felt tired and sweaty with bloated eyelids. I eventually gave up and got dressed and ready for dinner.

By this point Scott had dozed off on the couch and there were still a few minutes before I had to wake him. I clicked around on the TV while tugging at my turtleneck until I felt claustrophobic and smothered in my own clothing and I ran to the closet with a wimper, exchanging my deviled turtleneck for the fat pajamas. You know the ones. Then I crawled back into bed without waking him up.

We missed all the reservations except for the 9:30 one at our regular place. But when Scott hovered above me on the bed again, talking about dinner again, I began to cry. I was sick. I finally had to admit it. And hell if I want to put on clothes that don't have a drawstring and and do things like sit up. So instead of a Valentine's dinner with candles, I sent Scott down to our other regular place—the Chinese take-out downstairs—and had him pick up some wonton soup for me.

He also brought me a bottle of wine, a single red rose, and a small box of chocolates. Only my boyfriend has alcohol issues, so he drank the wine. And my lovely dog snatched the box of chocolates off the coffee table while I was napping and tore off the cardboard heart top with precision and ate my chocolates.

I've just now replaced my chocolates in the seasonal 75%-off aisle of Walgreens while picking up my prescriptions (all $250 worth. Ouch.) after missing a week of work. In addition to bronchitis, it seems I have an unknown thyroid problem which I have to get screened for cancer (Yea!) and possible surgery (Woo.) And who knows how much all of this is going to cost because I have the worst health care plan in the United States. No lie. It's like I don't even have insurance. Actually, it is so bad that I just tell doctors I don't have insurance. It only covers me for catastrophic events like car accidents and cancer. Well then, it looks like I am covered.

So that was my Valentine's Day.