9. Jordan
Jordan
Orion Brent is a sickness denier.
It’s a real thing, though it’s a condition that’s never made total sense to me. While most people obviously don’t enjoy being sick, the majority of us don’t mind the extra attention it gets us. Most of us like it when others are concerned about us, or try to take care of us. Not Orion.
His mom once told me that when he was five, he had a really sore throat.
He completely denied there was anything wrong with him, wouldn’t take meds, and got angry when she asked him if he was feeling sick.
It got so bad that, eventually, he couldn’t eat or drink anything because it hurt so much to swallow.
After a pretty spectacular showdown, she wrangled him to the pediatrician.
The doctor looked at his throat and immediately said, “Tonsillitis.”
Apparently, Orion hadn’t uttered a word for days by then because his throat was so raw, and he had no idea what tonsillitis was, but the finer details didn’t matter. To him, what the doctor said was an insult. An accusation.
“I’m not sick,” he rasped hoarsely.
Mrs. Brent said the doctor gave her a grave look and said, “Ah, a sickness denier.”
So, despite how unlikely it seems, being a sickness denier is a real thing, and Orion has been formally diagnosed with the condition.
He’s currently swanning around the apartment, trying to pretend there’s nothing wrong with him.
He’s walking carefully, though, minding how his heels and toes hit the floor in a way that makes me think he has a headache and he’s trying not to jostle his brain any more than he has to.
I suspected he had a headache yesterday too, but of course, he denied it.
“Cereal?” I offer.
“Thanks,” he grunts, taking a seat on one of the kitchen stools.
I get a bowl out of the overhead cupboard and pour an excessive amount of milk into it.
I pause for a second to see if he’ll take the bait, but he doesn’t, so I pour some cereal into the milk and place the bowl in front of him on the counter.
I wordlessly hand him a spoon. He takes it from me and has a bite of cereal without saying anything about the fact that I put the milk in first.
Yep. The man is feeling like shit.
He chews the mouthful a little longer than he needs to and pauses almost imperceptibly before swallowing. He flashes me a brilliant smile to throw me off the scent. As if I’d fall for that.
He has a few more bites, chewing and swallowing gingerly, not even looking offended about the amount of milk in his bowl.
I watch and wait until he puts the spoon down, then I spring into action.
I know him well enough to know a stealth attack is the only way to handle things.
I grab him from behind and pull him backward just enough to throw him off balance.
His arms fly out to steady himself, but I quickly pin them down.
It’s a bit of a challenge to subdue him and keep him from falling off the stool at the same time, but he’s definitely not at full strength because it’s easier than it should be.
Once I have him secured, I hold him in place with one arm and forcibly clamp my free hand onto his forehead.
I know all this might seem extreme to people who don’t know him, but, like, Orion needs this. You’ll have to take my word on that. He can’t be rational when he’s sick, but it’s fine because he has me to be rational for him.
He struggles furiously, yelling obscenities at me, and I lose contact with his forehead a couple of times, but with some effort, I wrestle control back and manage to get my hand on him properly.
Mm, damn.
I’ve hit a slight snag.
I’m not a hundred percent sure how to tell if he has a fever. I’ve seen moms doing this to their kids a lot, but I never really thought about how they actually know if their kid’s temperature is higher than it should be once they’ve done it.
Shit. Maybe I should have thought this through a little more.
His forehead feels warmer than my hand does, but I’m not sure if it’s enough to be a problem. I think faces are usually warmer than hands, right?
I release him briefly, placing my hand on my own forehead to see if his head feels different from mine. When I’m sure I have a good idea of a healthy baseline temperature, I put my hand back on his forehead and find that he’s noticeably warmer than I am.
It’s official. The sickness denier is sick.
I don’t insult him by saying so, but he yells at me that he’s fine all the same.
“We’re skipping gym today,” I say instead.
He tries not to show any reaction, but his shoulders drop fractionally in relief.
I’ve been extremely worried about Orion all day.
He dragged himself to class this morning, against my advice.
I waited outside his marketing class for him this afternoon, but he didn’t come out of the building, so he must have decided to skip it.
It’s not like him to skip class at all. He has a perfect attendance record this semester.
He’s super particular about things like that.
As soon as I get home, I’m hit with a deep pang of concern.
The atmosphere in the apartment is subdued.
The energy that usually follows Orion from room to room is dull and flat.
I can tell that I was right to worry about him.
He’s not looking good. He’s curled up on the sofa, staring listlessly at the TV with his hands wedged between his thighs.
“Hey,” he says weakly.
His eyelids are half-closed, his face pale.
He’s feeling like such shit that he doesn’t even try to curb how happy he is to see me.
His lips curl in a big dopey smile and his eyes go unfocused as he blinks.
He doesn’t look away quickly either. He holds eye contact, watching me put my keys in the wonky tray his mom made years ago when she decided to try her hand at pottery.
I keep my back turned on him and quietly open the no-contact infrared thermometer I bought at CVS after I realized he skipped class. I try to limit the sound of the packaging rustling, and I read the instructions carefully before approaching him stealthily.
I hold the device behind my back until I’m within arm’s length of him.
He’s so out of it that he doesn’t see what I’m up to until I have the thing pointed square at his forehead. I take aim and press the button. The thermometer beeps and the screen lights up red. It reads 101.2 degrees.
I told the pharmacist at CVS about Orion’s symptoms, and she gave me a rundown on things to look out for. She said that anything over 100.4 is considered a fever, but that unless it got over 103 and didn’t respond to meds, I was safe treating him at home.
To be on the safe side, I bought meds for colds, flu, and stomach bugs, as well as a humidifier and a stack of vitamins and tonics.
Orion might enjoy playing it fast and loose with his health, but I’m not taking any chances.
He’s my favorite person in the world, and I’m sure as hell not going to let him feel like shit because he has some weird obsession with pretending he doesn’t get sick.
We don’t have a throw blanket in our living room, so I get the comforter off my bed and put that over him. He scarcely complains when I tuck it in nice and tight all around him.
I put the meds and a glass of water on a side table and move it close to the sofa, near his head, so he can reach it without having to sit up.
Then I go to the kitchen and fix him something to eat.
When I return with a bowl of spaghetti, I notice that half the glass of water is gone and the cold-and-flu medicine packets are empty.
Good. He’s taken something for his fever at least.
I take note of the time, and thirty minutes later, I take his temperature again.
The thermometer I bought is a godsend. It makes it so easy to sneak up on Orion that by the time he realizes what I’m doing, it’s already done. Definitely way better than the tactic I used this morning. He’s still not a fan of it though.
“Stop shooting that fucking thing at me,” he says, the third time I do it.
His fever has come down a lot, but it’s still at 100.6. I’ll be keeping a close eye on him tonight, no matter what he has to say about it.