The Mountain or the Molehill?

I've been fighting a coldish flu for about 3 weeks now.  It's getting annoying because I have days when I feel I've beaten it.  In fact, I had two days on the weekend that led me to believe I was over it.

Not so.

This morning I didn't wake up until almost 10 a.m. and I was back to sleep for 4 hours about half an hour later.  All the cold-related symptoms are back, and I'm dizzy and mostly out-of-it as far as clarity of mind and mouth are concerned.

Dave has been wonderful, but seeing him today, watching out for me and schlepping breakfast and mixing lime cordial drinks made me a bit nervous.  I'm not really sick.  If I were a younger woman with a family I'd be up and doing what needs doing; if I lived alone, I'd have to make my own meals and take care of the housework.   If Dave were to be sick, I couldn't afford to be in bed right now and I wonder if I'd be able to care for him as he does for me.

It's strange when you consider all the tough things we've been able to work out that I just don't know whether or not I'd make a good care-giver, and if I didn't, how we'd deal with that.  It's probably one of the things we should have worked out between us long ago---it should likely have taken precedence over whether or not I'll drink lactose-free milk because he has an intolerance or whether we'd catalogue our music by first or last names of artists.

I have always been the fiddling grasshopper, enjoying the present, whatever it is, while Dave is the responsible ant, thinking about the future and always working to ensure the rainy days get dealt with.  Maybe that's what we already decided, and the roles are fixed, but winter is coming and Grasshopper is afraid.  Or at least I will be when I finish this new book on my e-reader.  And after I'm over this fluey cold.