So I’ve been MIA since Monday.
Pretty unusual for me since I pretty much live to tell you every minute detail of my life whether you deem it necessary or not.
This week saw me busier than other weeks because my second pair of arms, my husband Wayne, suffered a minor injury.
One of his balls is hanging lower than the other.
I know, I know, you’re already shaking your head, right?
How can this be?
What does a man do that causes one ball to get sucked up into his body cavity?
Apparently he squats, picks up a heavy parcel, lifts, and twists.
Ball herniates up into the abdominal cavity.
I know, right, you’re cringing.
It’s not that bad…
…I don’t think.
Of course, with all my medical knowledge, Wayne interrogates ME on the specific medical terminology associated with his current predicament.
He asks, “What would you call this?”
I reply, “A strangulated nutsac.”
“So in the worker’s compensation report I should write: strangulated…”
“…nutsac,” I say.
He smiles. “I know you’re messing with me. So really, what is it: a strangulated…testicle?”
“Nope. It’s nutsac. Definitely nutsac.”
Obviously he doesn’t believe me.
And it’s a good thing he doesn’t because I have no idea what’s wrong with him.
But he’s hanging around me, all puppy-dog like, with his strangulated nutsac, until I say, “I’m pretty sure it’s not a strangulated anything. Maybe you herniated something though. Let me assess.”
I love that I get to use my big nursing words on him.
The assessment takes place in the kitchen.
Because I was in there pouring a bowl of Cheerios when he asked.
“Drop your pants,” I say.
And unlike any other time where those three words would have unleashed a series of comments meant to be interpreted as foreplay, he’s so fricken scared of this strangulated nutsac diagnosis, that he does it.
So there he is, standing in the middle of the kitchen with his pants around his ankles.
And there I am…assessing.
He asks, “Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves for this?”
Groping Fondling Palpating, I ask, “Does this hurt?”
“Does it hurt if I press here?”
“How ’bout when I press in your inner thigh…right here.”
“Groin pull,” I say. “Ice it for 20 minute intervals. Aren’t you glad I’m a nurse?”
“Ice? I’m not putting ice on my balls.”
“Nutsac,” I correct.
“Hey, can I blog about this?” I ask.
His reply: “Sure. But you’re not getting pictures this time.”