September 16, 2004
Part One of Husband's Bizarre Illness: Get In the Damn Car
I'm a big fan of men - as anyone who has known me for more than 3 minutes will tell you - but they are stupid babies. Now, gentlemen, before you get all offended and pouty and threaten to withhold sex (okay, that's, like, the least-likely scenario ever), I have conclusive proof, as scientifically documented, by me, during Husband's recent hospital stay.
Conversation with Husband on a Wednesday, begun by me:
"You're home early. Office hit by a meteor?"
"I have a headache. And look at this huge mosquito bite!"
"Gee, honey, do you think they're in any way related?"
"No, it's just a headache."
"If you say so."
Thursday night, I go out. Husband goes to meeting, so I assume he's fine.
Conversation with Husband on a Friday, begun by me:
"You're home early."
"I have a headache, and a neckache, and a cough, and I fell asleep at my desk today. And yesterday, too. And lookit how huge this bite as gotten!"
"Get in the car."
"No, I'll call my doctor tomorrow, if I don't feel better."
"Get. In. The. Damn. Car."
Husband owns his own business and is your classic Type A personality. He NEVER comes home early, let alone twice in one week. Not even for a bootie call.
If his office did get hit by a meteor, he'd be sitting in the rubble, tapping on a keyboard connected to a melted, smoldering computer, with a quizzical look on his face. So why his need to leave work early didn't trigger in him the realization that he was probably dying, I can't imagine. Hence: Stupid. I took him to the ER.
On the door was a sign: If You Have These Symptoms, Please Put On Face Mask Provided Below. There were 8 symptoms listed, and he had 7 of them. He put on a mask.
I have a letter from the attending nurse stating that I am, indeed, smarter than Husband and he should listen to me always, witnessed by a doctor and a security guard, and notarized. I'm having it framed.
Much hullabaloo later, they told us they were admitting him, so I went home to pack him a bag. When I got back to the ER, he was asleep. The nurse woke him up to take his blood pressure, which was 86 over 54.
"Wow!" she exclaimed. "That's a great resting heart rate! You must be an athlete or something!"
Husband beamed. I doubled over in hysterical laughter. Husband glared.
His resting heart rate just proves what I have always suspected - that he goes into a coma when he sleeps. How do you not hear a Dog vs. Raccoon commotion on the patio right outside the bedroom window? Seriously, how?!
My work being done, I went home, and Husband was soon given a bed. The next morning, the nurse came in to take blood and poke and prod... and humiliate.
"How much do you weigh?"
"Two-ten."
(dubious look)
"What?!"
"Two-forty, more like?"
"No!"
"Are you gonna make me get the scale?"
Holy crap. That bitch means business! Ends up Husband is 220, but at least his guess was closer than hers was. I guess they have to be very exact when figuring out how much drugs they can give him, but The Scale Incident (as it has come to be known) was apparently frivolous, as they offhandedly doubled his antibiotics the following day.
Tomorrow: Part Two