We both got the same thing in February and were properly flattened for the better part of a week — the kind of illness where you negotiate about who has the energy to make toast.
And I discovered that I had absolutely no idea what our arrangement was supposed to do when neither of us could function.
The Thing Nobody Plans For
We’d agreed rules for all sorts of situations. Travel. Busy weeks. What happens if something feels wrong. Not one of them covered “both of you are ill and neither can be bothered to have a conversation about it.”
So it just drifted for four days, which was fine, except that on day three he asked — through a blocked nose and clearly feeling dreadful — whether he should still be waiting for me on something.
Insight: When you’re the one who decides, your silence still functions as an instruction. He wasn’t asking me to make a decision. He was asking whether an old one still stood, because it had never been cancelled.
That’s the bit worth planning for: not the illness, but the fact that nothing switches itself off.
What We Do Now
We have a sentence. It is not romantic and it does not need to be: “We’re off until I say.”
It covers illness, it covers a death in the family, it covers a week where everything has gone wrong at once. It takes two seconds, it removes every open question, and it means neither of us is quietly wondering while feeling awful.
The important half is “until I say” rather than “for now” — it makes clear that starting again is my job, not something he has to raise when he’s well enough to feel awkward about raising it.
On Devices Specifically
One practical note, because it matters more than the emotional side here.
If he’s wearing something and gets genuinely unwell — fever, dehydration, anything involving swelling, or medication that changes things — take it off. Not as a kindness. As basic sense. Bodies behave differently when they’re fighting something, and a fit that was comfortable last week may not be this week.
We took his off on the first evening without discussing it, which was the one thing I got right that week. If something looks or feels wrong afterwards and doesn’t settle, see a doctor — they will have seen considerably stranger things than this.
The Small Good Part
What I remember from that week isn’t the illness. It’s him, on the third evening, bringing me a glass of water and a paracetamol and going straight back to bed without a word.
We’d spent years building something elaborate about attention, and the week it all switched off he was more attentive than ever. I don’t think that’s an argument against the arrangement. I think the arrangement had been practising him at noticing, and the noticing didn’t need the arrangement to keep working.
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