“Just where do you think you’re going, young man?” My bellowing stopped hubby dead in his tracks. The outburst was so loud, in fact, it probably woke a few of our neighbors as well.
“It’s trash day and I was just going to roll the receptacles down to the curb.” he responded, totally unaware that this might not be the brightest idea.
“Seriously?” I retorted “after everything you went through yesterday? I don’t think so!”
Our adventure the previous day started bright and early. So early in fact, that the sun had not even thought about waking up yet. No, we weren’t on our way to catch an early morning flight to some fabulous destination. Our pre-dawn excursion was to the “Total Joint Surgery Center” where hubby was first-up for hip replacement surgery.
You would think he might have been a bit more anxious, but despite sleeping barely a wink the night before, he couldn’t contain his excitement. Who would have thought that someone about to go under the knife would be this enthused. My hubby, that’s who. Why? Certainly, because he was looking forward to no longer having pain and restricted movement. But mostly because, after a promised short recovery time, he was looking forward to focusing his attention once again on the love of his life - golf.
Yes, golf. The “looks too young to be doing this” surgeon had assured him a speedy convalescence and, even more importantly, that his drives on the links would increase 30 to 50 yards. What could be better than that? So, there he was, bright eyed, bushy tailed and anxious to get the procedure underway.
The surgery itself took just under an hour and as promised, my adorable spouse was up and walking within a half-hour post-surgery. A true modern medical marvel had been performed. He was released shortly after, and we were back in our car and on our way home before you could say Senior PGA.
And walk he did. Every hour on the hour, as directed. Was he in pain? Initially a little, as expected but he was loaded up on whatever drugs the good doctor deemed necessary for post-surgery discomfort. Admonitions were given to continue the medication every four hours religiously to forestall the hurt that was sure to follow once the initial numbing medication and anesthetics had worn off.
Hubby was feeling so good the morning after - and I mean SO GOOD - that he decided he was the new Bionic Man. He was walking well (with a walker of course) and saw no reason to abandon any of his normal routine.
Which brings me back to trash day. I was about to pour a second cup of coffee when I caught my very own Lee Majors about to roll out a trash receptacle to the curb, using it as a walker. His own walking aid was neatly propped on top of the can, ready for the trip back.
“What in heavens name are you doing? You could fall and seriously hurt yourself you know!” My ire and concern stopped his proposed antics just in time.
“But I’m feeling so good!” was my bionic man’s response, a hint of a pout appearing on his face.
“Great, and let’s keep it that way, ok?” I snapped back, more out of concern than real anger. What is it with these guys I muttered to myself. Forget the Bionic Man - he thinks he’s really Superman and is impervious to anything but Kryptonite.
Looking like a little boy after being caught doing something naughty, hubby retreated to his recliner, put his feet up and settled in for a nap. It wasn’t too long after when I heard his not-so-happy voice. “Ow, ow! Oh man - they weren’t kidding! This is really starting to hurt. I thought I was the miracle man, and I’d have no pain. Ouch, oh ouch! Hon, can you get me more Tylenol? And a blanket? And maybe rub my feet? Thank you. Did I tell you today I love you? Did I tell you today you’re wonderful?” The drugs were at work, and he soon drifted back to sleep, not waiting for my reply.
As I looked at his sleeping face, my heart warmed. Such a cutie! How could I not do everything possible to ease his discomfort. He was right on track recovery-wise, and I was certain he would be feeling right as rain in no time.
As I adjusted his pillow and smoothed his blanket, I put the Golf Channel on the big screen TV. Perhaps some inspiration from the golf pros would speed his recovery along.
That and the new Callaway “I’m Going to Make You a Pro” Anti-Slice driver arriving via Fed Ex tomorrow.
© 2024 Annie Sokoloff
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