The Man-Flu Chronicles: Why Women Aren’t Allowed to Be Ill (Apparently)

The husband returned home last week from a rather 'heated' destination, shall we say, both in terms of temperature and current global chaos.

Two days later, he collapsed.

Not literally, though you’d think it by the volume of his groaning.

It all started with a throat tickle. Then came the chills, the sweats, the wobbly legs, the blocked nostrils that apparently left him seconds from death. And the grand finale? The absolute tragedy of not being able to taste the homemade Victoria sponge

If it weren’t so utterly pitiful, his performance might’ve earned him a BAFTA. Or at least a guest role in a minor hospital drama!

Yes, he’s been 'critically ill' with the sniffles for six days now. Six. Days. Bravely plodding on. Pushing through the pain... with only a mere twenty-three to twenty-seven updates on his misery per day.

A true hero, some would say.

As a loving wife, I obviously smiled sweetly through the entire ordeal, handed him mugs of extra milky tea, and did not smother him with the very blanket resting beside his weary head. The thought did cross my mind, but I like those blankets.

Instead, I waited on him. Baked more cake. And, lo and behold, three days in, I also became ill. Same virus. Same symptoms. Same plague-riddled household.

But did I mention it? No. Did I flop into bed and announce my doom like a Shakespearean widow? Also no.

Why? Because the original carrier of this delightful contagion (yes, husband, I mean you) might feel bad. And that would be awful, wouldn’t it?

So I quietly got on with it. Because that’s what women do, right?

My teenage daughter got it next. Then my son. Now they’re both tucked up, under blankets, streaming Netflix and grumping with mild despair. Meanwhile, I’m functioning like the fridge light - flickering, useless, but technically still on.

I handed out bagels and Asda's own-brand liquid paracetamol. Cooled sweaty foreheads with those cold gel thingys, and whipped out the thermometer like some deranged NHS intern... All while my own head throbbed and my throat felt like I’d swallowed a bad decision from 2004.

And then, this morning, while trying to convince my son that yes, his toes can still function while he’s poorly, the neighbours downstairs decided to fire up the jackhammer and continue with their renovation project.

Of course they did.

Urgh. Why can't I just be ill, in peace, with like an actual acknowledgement of illness, rather than sniffling in silence like an MI6 agent?

I don’t want flowers or a fanfare. I don’t want soup in bed or to be dramatically announced as “poorly” every 45 minutes. I just want the option to fully fall apart without having to wipe anyone else’s nose, butt or pinky toe in the process.

But alas. I am a woman. A mother. A walking, talking human legal drug dispenser.

And according to society (and my father-in-law), that means I must soldier on. I must plough through the virus with dignity and Dettol. I must cradle the ill, soothe the anxious, prep the toast, and suppress every sneeze so I don’t look like I’m making it about me.

Yes, we are the unsung heroes. The emotional ox of... I don't even know where I'm going with this one! Something about strength and determination, blah blah blah.

Fever? Push through.

Dizzy spell? Have a sit down while the kettle boils.

Puffy eyes? Just say it’s an allergy and move on.

Honestly, it’s like being Florence Nightingale in a Temu hoodie, armed with a bottle of meds, an assortment of chew toys and baby wipes stuffed in my pockets, and a to-do list that doesn’t care that I'm one sneeze away from meeting my ancestors.

The cats are testing the limits of my feline patience. The teenager is mourning her sore throat... An excellent excuse to avoid speaking to anyone. And my youngest is now demanding to know if this virus will last four or thirty-four hours.

Meanwhile, the husband is still bravely reminding us, in case we forgot, that he can’t taste his tea, although he's now up and about like a true champion, and questioning why the rest of us look like extras from a Zombie movie.

But it’s fine. It’s always fine. I’ll just pop another paracetamol, ignore the room spin, pretend the pressure behind my eyeballs is character-building, and carry on folding laundry with absolutely no emotional support beyond the packet of Jelly Babies I've just found on my desk.

Because women? We’re not just surviving the virus.

We’re surviving the noise, the needs, the never-ending load of washing, and the complete and utter inability to just be sick in peace.

So if anyone needs me, I’ll be in the kitchen. Blinking slowly. Feeling defeated. Spreading toast crumbs with the grace of someone who absolutely should be curled up watching a Friends rerun, but knows deep down that no one else remembered to defrost the dinner.

And that, my friends, is why women don’t get man-flu.

We get on with it, slightly ragey, definitely congested, and somehow still the only one who knows where the cold and flu sachets are kept.

P.S. If this post made you laugh, cry, or feel just a little bit more human, that’s exactly what my book was written for. You can grab a copy over on Amazon, or if you'd prefer a signed edition, just drop me a message.

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“I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.”

Maya Angelou