Carl’s orthopedic doctor called me after his surgery on Tuesday…
Dr: Is this Ms. Kennedy?
Me: Maybe. Who’s asking? [laughs – I’m so funny]
Dr: [serious, professional tone]. This is Dr. Rudy Wells (Ha. NOT his real name, but if it was, I’d want his autograph because he put the Six Million Dollar Man together).
Me: Hi, Dr. Is my husband alive?
Dr: [shocked at my question] Of course he is. I finished the surgery in a timely manner. It was very routine.
Me: So, when can I pick his big ass up?
Dr: One of my nurses will contact you when Mr. Kennedy is in recovery and you may pick him up then.
Me: Please let Mr. Kennedy know I’ll be there after my nap and not a minute before.
I’m sure Dr. Wells made a note never to call me again.
When the I got to the hospital, Carl was in a great mood and looking super sexy in a hospital gown.
The nurses told him he had to pee before they could release him. Carl asked a nurse to help tie up his gown so he wouldn’t flash everyone as he walked to the bathroom.
The nurse tied the gown and as Carl walked down the hall, everyone and their mothers could see his behind. I think the nurse planned it this way. Nurses have hidden agendas, ya know.
After an hour of waiting with Carl, drinking his cranberry juice and eating his graham crackers, I started feeling sick.
Did you even eat before you came here? Carl asked.
How could I? I was about to sit down and eat a sandwich when the nurse called ad said you wanted me to come right away and bring a regular Coke since all they have here is diet soda, I said emphatically.
Oh, you are such a saint, he said sarcastically.
Just you wait. One day, stories of all my saintly deeds will finally be noticed and volumes of books will be written about me.
Then my Spidey senses started picking up on things:
What the fuck is that smell? It’s like beans and feet. And most definitely death, I asked.
I don’t smell anything, Carl replied.
Well, of course you don’t. You’ve been here since six in the morning. You’re body has acclimated to the stench.
So now it’s been a few days since his surgery and I don’t know how my mom was a nurse all these years.
Last night, I could hear Carl moaning in pain, but instead of asking if he was okay, I turned my back against him in bed and ignored him. Maybe he could just sleep it off. When he finally asked if I could get him new ice packs, I was tempted to pretend I was still sleeping.
I’m exhausted, I told Carl this morning.
Oh yeah? I’m pretty tired, too. Someone snored all night. It was like there was Mac truck coming into our room, he sighed.
We’ll have to do something about that toddler.
Carl gave this weird look and said, I wasn’t talking about the toddler.
Well, I said, ignoring his comments, SOMEONE woke me up at four this morning.
The way you talk, you’d think YOU were the one who got the shoulder surgery, he said, not pleased by how the conversation was going.
Maybe we should hire you a nurse, I said.
Now we’re talking. Carl seemed to perk up after that suggestion.
A nurse in their late sixties would be great.
For someone in so much pain, I’ve never seen Carl move so quickly out of bed and out the bedroom door.