Free In Bed with Jocasta by Richard Glover Page A

fussing around my bed like a nurse from a
Carry On
movie, leaning over me with health-inspiring bosoms and a kindly smile. The disease may have rendered me asthmatic and thick-headed, but it has turned Jocasta meek and sweet. Now
that’s
a virus.
    Truth is, most women are powerless against a pale and sickly man. It’s a remarkable effect to witness, which may be why so many men, over the years, have become skilled at milking it. Some even making use of the Bambi Eyes (wide open, beseeching, injured). It’s rotten that a person has to go this far to get a little sympathy. But, over time, I’ve found it’s necessary.
    My mother, for example, has always been of the view that illness is a sign of moral decay and misbehaviour. It deserves no sympathy, and certainly no treatment.
    Report to her that you went to the doctor and that he said your illness is serious, and suddenly she is concerned. ‘What? You went to a
doctor?’
(Incredulous pause on other end of phone.) ‘Well, no wonder you’re sick.’
    She thinks most illness is caused by consuming over-rich food and indulging in disgusting, modern practices, such as the eating of garlic and going outdoors without germ-repelling white gloves.
    In terms of parenting, she always believed her main duty was to remind me how generally lucky I was. As in the exchange:
    ‘Mum, Mum, it’s terrible, I’ve just fallen off my bike and gashed my leg, which is now bleeding horribly.’
    ‘Well, just think what a lucky boy you are to have a bike from which to fall.’
    (You’ll notice: more effort placed in achieving the proper grammatical construction than in fetching a bandage to staunch the by now Amazon River-like bloodflow.)
    Meanwhile, there is my doctor friend Simon — perfectly pleasant I’m sure to his own patients, but utterly unsympathetic to family and friends. One day I plan to decapitate myself in front of Simon, just to hear him look up from his newspaper and mumble: ‘Oh, Richard do pull yourself together.’
    So no sympathy is on offer without a bit of theatrical effort — which luckily is not beyond me. Perhaps these same performances have been spotted in your house?
    The John Wayne
    I’m in bed, and Jocasta has come in with some aspirin. My aim: to subtly indicate the Massive Extent of My Illness, without revealing that I’m a whinger and malingerer. I take John Wayne as my model. For instance: the moment when he gets a tomahawk through his skull, and just does one of those tight, brave smiles. The Courageous Little Smile That Masks Indescribable Pain. I flash one at Jocasta — letting it wobble a bit on my face, just to show the depth of the pain — and suddenly her brain explodes in a hormone storm. With a squawk of pity, she runs off to make more soup.
    The Lord Byron
    Day Two, and the Duke’s losing his power. As her footsteps approach, I fall wanly backwards — and reveal ‘The Lord Byron’. Pale and interesting, head lolling loosely, the eyes focused on the middle distance. Death from consumption may be rare in the inner west, but it’s clearly what I’ve got. Jocasta runs off to starch my collars.
    The Camille
    Day Three, and the illness gets really bad. So bad I find myself unable to face alcohol of any sort. ‘Bugger,’ I think, ‘I didn’t know I was
that
sick.’ Shaken, I return to my bed, and commence enacting the death scene from
Camille.
‘It was terrible,’ I report to Jocasta. ‘I looked into the fridge, and I felt … I felt nothing. I wasn’t
interested.’
    DIARY NOTE: ‘The Camille’ does not work. Expected sympathy does not eventuate. Patient greeted instead with torrent of abuse. DO NOT ATTEMPT AGAIN.
    The Brando
    Day Four, and I unveil ‘The Brando’. Lying around unshaven in my white singlet, I yell up the hallway: ‘Stella!’ Finally, Jocasta responds and I give her the works: self-pity, morose introspection, shambling gait, and a complete inability to articulate simple thoughts. ‘Ah,’ she says brightly,