I’m supposed to be writing more of the Hope Series this morning, but I can’t find it in me to concentrate. Even as I type this, my husband of twenty-five years is going under the surgical knife for an inguinal hernia repair.
It’s not precisely major surgery but it involves a general anesthetic, which always means risk. And he’s mine…
That might be what was churning through his own grey matter this morning in the bathroom. I was brushing my teeth, when I became arrested by the expression on his face that was at least ten percent sober.
Ha! Like I needed your permission, I thought. But aloud I made all the appropriately soothing noises, which I’m fairly certain will be only a warm-up act for the next couple days. (We all know how men are when they’re feeling under the weather.)
Now, lest you are all thinking that I am a cold, unfeeling woman, and that he could do much better, let me tell you the rest of the story.
I noticed he hadn’t shaved his groin, and asked if that was a purposeful omission. (The last thing you want to do is have your surgery bumped at the last minute because you haven’t followed the pre-op protocol down to the letter.) Turns out he hadn’t received any instructions to that effect. So I explained the manscaping would likely fall to a nurse at the last minute, when he was on the OR table. And do you know what my husband had the temerity to do????
He smiled a wicked smile and waggled his eyebrows at me.
So, P, this blog post’s for you. Yes, you’re financially worth more to me dead than alive, but you better come back to me, you hear. <fist shake> ‘Cause who else will keep the laughter in my life, if not you, my dear uni-balled wonder?