Before you read the following diatribe, I must point out that my husband Jim is a dear sweet man. There are not many men who would take two weeks off from work to cater to a sick wife's every whim.
I know I should be grateful that after my surgery, I had someone who fetched my water and medicine, picked up things when I dropped them, and did the dishes. Not once did he yell at me or try to smother me with a pillow. Isn't having a husband do your bidding without questions, wisecracks, or hesitation every woman's dream?
Um, no. I am so relieved that he went back to work Monday, only minutes short of my shooting him.
|
During our two-week ordeal, he did accomplish a few things. Because he needed frequent breaks from my unpleasantness, he was able to rake the entire yard, bag the leaves and clean off the pool cover. These are chores not usually accomplished until January, especially if there's a football game on TV. |
For example, there was the doughnut incident. One morning I craved a doughnut -- a chocolate-cream (pause) filled doughnut. Now anyone who knows doughnuts knows that there are chocolate-cream (pause) filled doughnuts and then there are chocolate (pause) cream-filled doughnuts. I was picturing a powdered doughnut filled with light, airy chocolate cream. He didn't realize what my subtle pause meant.
"This is the only chocolate cream-filled doughnut they had," he said when he got back from Dunkin' Donuts.
Naturally, it was one of those chocolate-frosted deals with yellow cream inside, not the chocolate-cream (pause) filled confection I had been salivating for.
"I hate this kind of doughnut," I said cruelly. "The cream looks like pus."
"Well tell me what you want, and I'll go back and get it," he said placatingly.
"I want a husband who's not an idiot," I shouted. "But they don't have that at Dunkin' Donuts, do they?"
In spite of my disgust, I managed to eat the doughnut in about four bites. Jim kissed me on the cheek and told me he knew how rough this whole thing was. I managed to growl something about how I wouldn't believe that he understood at all until someone ripped out a couple of his organs.
As for cooking, I was looking forward to having all my meals prepared for me, because Jim is a decent chef. The first night that he made dinner, I dozed in front of the television, picturing my little Emeril wannabe whipping up a delicious meal.
What I got was: "Where's the big pot?" "Where do you keep the lid?" "Which flavor spaghetti sauce do I use?" "Do we have any onions?" "Where is the grated cheese?"
Jim hasn't a clue as to where anything is in our house. I once told him that if I died, he wouldn't know where to find things -- from spare toothbrushes to the good silverware to canned corn. Of course, when I told him that, the smart aleck had an immediate answer for me: "Honey, if you died, I would never stay in this big house alone, and when I packed things, I would find everything and set up the new house my way." Isn't he just too adorable?
On Thanksgiving Day, I dragged myself up from the couch and managed to make Thanksgiving dinner, which consisted of thawed turkey and stuffing I had cooked pre-surgery, jarred gravy, canned cranberries, canned yams and a pie made by a friend. I suffered some severe pain after an hour on my feet, but it was so much better than a one-hour barrage of questions from Jim.
During our two-week ordeal, he did accomplish a few things. Because he needed frequent breaks from my unpleasantness, he was able to rake the entire yard, bag the leaves and clean off the pool cover. These are chores not usually accomplished until January, especially if there's a football game on TV.
He also learned exactly where everything is in the grocery store and managed to figure out the fine art of coupon-shopping. He even remembered to use the store card to get discounts. Of course, every item on the grocery list included a detailed description with it. For example: "Breakstone's Sour Cream. Reduced fat. Do not get fat-free. Red and white carton in the dairy section." He could have read a Dickens novel in the time it took to get through my shopping lists.
I also taught him how to change kitty litter, and to tell you the truth, he's getting to be a real pro at it. The fist time he did it, I had to coach him step by step, and you would have thought he was launching a space shuttle rather than dumping cat poop.
The trouble with Jim is, he doesn't listen to a complete sentence before taking action.
"First you dump the kitty litter into -- " before I could say, "a garbage bag," he had dumped five pounds of kitty litter into the toilet, resulting in a clay-jammed pipe and a $100 plumbing bill.
Same with the goldfish.
"Before you empty the bowl, catch the goldfish in the net, and --" Bam! The goldfish is bashing his head against the sides of a juice glass the size of a thimble.
If anything happens to me, I give our pets a week before they take that final trip to the Rainbow Bridge.
In short, I have only one bit of advice for women who will be cared for by their husbands after surgery: Thank him, tell him you love him dearly, and hire a home health care aide.
It's cheaper than a divorce attorney.
This article is copyright 2001 by Minx McCloud and appears here with both her permission and the permission of The Princeton Packet.
May we also suggest:
Chicken Soup for the Soulless: The Land of Precious Pets