Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Friends...you got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Uncategorized | Posted on 11-03-2013
Tags: Buddha, Burger King, HIPPA, Lloyd Dobler, Mrs. Patmore, Percs, Peter Gabriel, rabbi, Rosary Beads, Say Anything, TMZ, Web MD
So, hubs found out last week that he needs to have surgery this week. Don’t bust out your rosary beads or your Buddha or call your Rabbi–it’s totally minor. (Which is why he’s feeling his pulse and pacing. But you need to know this IS the guy who turned ashen and shrieked, “What’s gonna happen to meeeee!?” when he realized I’d inadvertently given him a tuna sammie on a roll that had one TEENY, TINY, TEENY bit of mold on it. What? It wasn’t on purpose! Go to Burger King if you want it your way! I ain’t no Mrs. Patmore.)
I know what you’re thinking. You. And You. AND you. What’s a little day surgery when he’s lived through almost 13 years of my culinary catastrophes. What’s a little day surgery when he’s survived at least a dozen common colds and three near misses with self diagnosed terminal Web-MD illnesses?
He’ll be fiiiine. I would be breaking HIPPA laws and probably marital ones too if I told you what he’s in for.
Rhymes with kerplernia.
Because I love him, I fully planned to see him through this. For better or worse. For poorer or poorer. In sickness
breaking a collar bone racing a Razor scooter on Mother’s Day, blowing out a knee pretending to be a Solid Gold dancer at high school reunion, no hard feelings and in health. I have been there. I am there. I will be there. Like Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything. Only more. And better. (No offense, Peter Gabriel. This isn’t about you.) Instead of a boom box, I’ll have People mag. Trash tv. Ginger ale. I’ll make sure his TMZ app is working (Yes he has it. Would I EVEN make that up?!!) AND I’ll be keeping the kids from jumping on his recuperating kerplernia-ness. I won’t try to take advantage of him in his fragile state. (Just so we’re clear, slurred consent for me buying bling will hold up in court, yes? Any barristers in da house??)
But seriously. I was all, “I got this!”
Then? He said something along the lines of—it’s all kind of hazy now—”By the way, I won’t be able to shower for like five days after the surgery. And, you’re going to need to change my dressings.”
Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat. Willis! Hubs! Soon to be Stinkyass! Whatever your name is!? What!?
I don’t remember much after that. I think I called my shrink. Oh wait, I don’t have a shrink. I mean, I opened my beer. And I said –to him–not the beer, “Now you are really taking this for better or worse chit a little too far lately. I am not yet 40–I have my whole
half my life ahead of me! Can’t we save the Nurse Ratchet bit for Bingo time? If you want a dressing change, please, I am totally willing to go Italian to blue cheese–boom–just ask! I am here for you!” When I brought out the box of Elmo bandaids to be helpful, I do have to wonder—and I’m just throwing it out there—if he fleetingly wondered if maybe bringing English major flowers on a random Tuesday miiiight have helped my outlook?
Five days of not showering? Changing dressings? While he’s laid up in bed surfing the net convinced he’s having kerplernia after shock complications that could cause blindness/ketosis/cirrhosis/deafness/impotence/male pattern baldness/typhoid/scarletfever/measles/sepsis/fungalungameningialcarpaltunnelness.
Who. Who’s busting me outta this joint?!!!