Me to husband: I am dizzy and cold. My stomach hurts. Oh my god, I must be dying of sepsis.
Husband: You’re not dying of sepsis. Do you want a sweater?
Me: No, I can’t sit up and put a sweater on. It will make the sepsis go faster and hurry me to my doom.
Husband: I don’t think that’s how it works.
Me: You’re the one who’ll wake up next to a corpse in the morning.
Husband: I think this may be anxiety. You don’t have sepsis.
Me: Are you a doctor?
Me: So there’s no way to be sure of that, is there?
Husband: No, I don’t have medical training, but neither do you. Do you want your anxiety medication?
Me: No. I’m not having a panic attack. I’m dying of sepsis.
Husband: [Sighing heavily. Getting me a sweater.]
Me: [Bemoaning my fate at the hands of a potentially fatal disease.]
[Sat up, put on my sweater, curled up, and watched “Grounded for Life” until I fell asleep.]