Conversation with My Wife (89.1)
Patient is doing well. Caregiver also.
Deb had gallbladder problems earlier:
So Tuesday morning we’re off to get Deb’s gallbladder removed, leaving early because we prefer sitting around in a waiting room instead of at home. But we’re not worried or anything, because we have been assured multiple times that it’s a simple little procedure, no biggy, really nothing to worry about. Laparoscopic surgery isn’t really *surgery* surgery, it’s more like surgery-lite.
Uh huh.
Getting into the car, my wife makes a face as she buckles up.
ME: You okay?
DEB: Apparently I’ve never worn a seatbelt without a bra before. Turns out it’s not so comfortable.
She was told to wear loose clothing with no bra, although that’s more for the trip home (her bra presses right into the area over her gallbladder; when she was having episodes, it was the first thing that came off once she got home) than the procedure. So sweat pants and an oversize t-shirt make up her morning ensemble.
Since we have time, we drop off some of our stuff at the drycleaners, which is on the way.
DEB: If it’s okay with you, honey, I’ll just let you go in.
ME: Because you don’t want to try out your no-bra look on the staff?
DEB: Precisely!*
We get to the clinic, with the dozens of sheets of paperwork that Deb was told to bring. Nobody looks at any of it. I wait in the outer room while Deb gets prepped, then I get called into the back area. Deb has gotten the standard-issue crappy hospital gown with shower cap, but they have wrapped her in blankets. She looks adorable.
We sit together until they’re ready for her. People stick their heads in every so often, introduce themselves, explain what will happen, then head off. It becomes apparent that we have crossed some invisible line and have gone from being under the care of the idiot clerical side of the clinic (the ones who lost Deb’s paperwork twice, once requiring that the procedure be rescheduled) and into the hands of the medical side, who know their stuff and have a clue about how to handle patients.
DEB: I feel pretty good about this, Jackster! Don’t you?
ME: Yup! (no, I feel this ice cold lump in my stomach and my limbs are tingling like I’m light-headed, but there ain’t no way I’m going to say that right before her s̶u̶r̶g̶e̶r̶y̶ procedure)
The staff finally come get Deb, we kiss and hug, and I get escorted back to the “Surgical Waiting Area” (because “Simple Little Procedure, No Biggy, Really Nothing To Worry About Waiting Area” was too much for a sign, apparently).
Time passes.
I read the news and play video games on my phone. I could catch up on my Medium reading, but right now a cute photo of Mr. Moles could send me over the edge (sorry, alto!). Much safer to devote brain cells to reading about North Korea and conquering fictional countries.
Time passes.
A smiling nurse comes to get me. Everything is fine.
I go back to a different area, where Deb is under a blanket and looking VERY groggy, but she smiles when I kiss her. Her post-procedure nurse wraps her in a warm blanket fresh from a heating cabinet, then wraps another warm one around her head and shoulders. (Post-surgery patients tend to feel very cold. Post-procedure patients, too, apparently. Who knew?) Everything is fine.
We get briefed on what to do when we get home, then get a paper that says the same thing again (this is a good thing). I help Deb get dressed — getting clothes on someone is harder than getting them off, did anyone else know that? — and I bring the car around while the nurse walks Deb out, very slowly. Everything is fine.
ME: How’s the pain?
DEB: It’s not… pain. Just… I dunno, soreness? Not like the gallbladder attacks. THAT was pain, like whole-body pain. This is just discomfort in one spot. (touches her navel where the main incision was made)
I drive her home, slowly walk her into the livingroom, stretch her out on the couch. Pillows, blankets, cold pack, and so on. It’s all good. My Debster is home again, and everything is fine.
Copyright © 2018 by Jack Herlocker
*Classical Sass wrote recently about bralettes:
Deb is not interested in bralettes, and now that I have a better idea of what they are (thanks, Sass!) I understand why. They basically sound like bras for women who don’t really need to be wearing a bra but feel like maybe they’re supposed to, or just want yet another fashion accessory. My wife, OTOH, is one of those women who is careful when bending downward quickly while braless, lest she suffer two black eyes.
Not the kind who feels comfortable in public without her underwire, in other words.
