Tale of Typhoid Tim

Once there was a husband who complained of a wicked sore throat.  He moaned and groaned, sweating and pale.

“Go to the doctor!”

“It’s just a cold.”

One by one we’re succumbing to spiking fevers and glassy eyes.   Expensive trips to Urgent Care, throat swabs, shots, and antibiotics.

I’m the last one standing.  A few more sleepless nights and nothing will save me.  I swear, if I go into labor with strep throat, there will be Hell to pay.