So on Tuesday, my husband Wayne had surgery to correct the carpel tunnel syndrome in his left hand.
For those of you who don’t know, carpel tunnel syndrome is a compression of the median nerve which can cause weakness, pain, and neuropathy in the affected hand…no, I didn’t learn this in nursing school, I learned it from Wikipedia.
Surgery to correct this is not a big deal. A little incision in the palmar region of the hand, snippety-snip, and TA-DA! Sensation in said hand is back within hours.
I have witnessed many of these surgeries when I was a medical secretary in a plastic surgery clinic (and before you ask, no, I had nothing done except lipo in my double chin, a facial peel, and numerous conversations with the surgeons during which time I begged and pleaded for free breast implants…sadly, it was a no-go on the latter).
So I know the surgery that Wayne underwent was not a big deal. Twelve minutes from start to finish.
Recovery isn’t a big deal either: keep the hand elevated for the first few days, take some Tylenol 3 (yahoo!), a little throbbing, some discomfort at the incision site.
But it’s not birth.
…and for those of you who are now panicking at the thought that I’m going to launch back into the story of my natural deliveries, fear not. I know not to flog a dead a horse.
I pick Wayne up from the hospital, and he’s got that sad, forlorn look on his face, the one that screams, “FEEL SORRY FOR ME!”
I say nothing.
We go to the pharmacy to fill the prescription for the Tylenol 3s.
Wayne is basically waving his bandaged hand in the pharmacist’s face, with that sad, forlorn look on his face, which is now screaming, “TAKE NOTICE OF ME AND MY INJURED HAND!”
I say nothing.
I drive us home, and Wayne is being his usual backseat-driving-self, telling me when to stop, when to go, where to turn, because apparently, I might not remember the route I took to get myself to the hospital 18 minutes prior to this moment.
However, I say nothing…
…Ok, that’s not true.
I say, “Just sit there and shut up, or you’ll have more to worry about than the pain in your hand. It’s not like you’re some driving expert.”
He said nothing….
…Ok, that’s not true either.
He said, “Actually, I am a driving expert. I’m a qualified driving instructor.”
Then we both said nothing.
It’s supper time.
I’m in the kitchen trying to get everyone fed.
Usually Wayne is not home at this time of day or he’s doing something else in some other part of the house.
But on this day, he’s in the kitchen.
Because he’s taken two Tylenol 3s, and he’s high as a fucken kite.
“I feel like I need to help out,” he says with a big, dopey smile on his face.
So there he is holding the bandaged hand in the air as per the doc’s instructions, while
massacring attempting to cut pizza with the other hand.
Cutting pizza is a two-handed procedure: one hand steadies the pizza, the other hand cuts the pizza.
Cutting pizza is not meant for postsurgical hand patients.
But nope. There’s Wayne zigzagging all over the place with the pizza cutter.
I say nothing.
…UNTIL he zigzags right off the pizza, and right into the bowl into which I’m laddling soup.
Finally, I turn to him, and say: “Captain Fucken Hook, get out of the kitchen!”
He went and laid on the couch where he promptly fell asleep.
His postoperative status did not however prevent him from trying to “get some” at bedtime.
When I said, “You can’t. You had surgery on your hand today,” he replied, “Captain Cook needs to get laid too.”