Brokearm Mountain
Last night, my mother-in-law arrived at our apartment a little after midnight. Fortunately, she will never, ever know what the place looked like only 5 hours earlier. I won't say the place was dysfunctional looking, but if it were a car it would have been up on blocks on a front lawn.
On Friday, Paul had surgery to fix the arm he broke in October (read all about it here and here). As a result, we're temporarily back to square one with the arm healing thing, but at least this time it seems to be on the right track. I just wish they'd done the surgery 4 months ago, but they waited because it heals on its own in about half the cases. And the operation sounded pretty unsavory.
"It's essentially a filet of arm," said Dr. Yang, without a trace of irony, when he originally discussed the procedure.
"I hear that goes well with fava beans," I said. Neither Paul nor Dr. Yang was amused.
On Friday morning, we had to be at the hospital at 6 AM. The surgery wasn't until 9 or so, but they like for patients to come in early to sit in the waiting room for an hour, so that being cut open will seem like sweet relief when it's time for the operation. At Mount Siani, they give you a beeper (no joke) which buzzes and beeps when it's your turn. It would be more helpful if they just gave you a calendar to figure out when you're going to be called.
Lessons learned: In a hospital 6 am, nothing on earth is less interesting than the June 2004 issue of Golf Digest. Except possibly AARP Magazine, or The Liver Disease Survivors' Fan Club Newsletter. Maybe people have stolen all the good magazines? I flip through an issue of Time Out Chicago. If I weren't in a hospital waiting room, and it weren't 6 AM, and if I were in the greater Chicago area, this would be a much more relevant publication. Did they specifically subscribe to Time Out Chicago, I wonder? Are they that sadistic?
Anyway, Paul survived the operation and is doing well, although he's still on a lot of pain pills (which, of course, are wasted on actual pain). At the hospital, everyone kept asking how he broke his arm. I think he should start lying.
"... and that's why I was kicked off the U.S. Olympic Luge Team," the story might end. It's much better than the version with the wet hardwood floor and the laundry lady and me outside in my nightgown buzzing the doorbell (which, when you see that on paper, sounds much more lurid than it actually was).
Fortunately, Paul doesn't blame me at all for the whole arm-breaking thing. As he says, I'm the "co-Executive Producer" of Paul's Broken Arm. The laundry lady I was helping that fateful day, I guess, is the key grip.
(DISCLAIMER: the title of this blog entry does not imply that my husband, or his arm, is actually a gay cowboy. Not that there's anything wrong with that ...)
On Friday, Paul had surgery to fix the arm he broke in October (read all about it here and here). As a result, we're temporarily back to square one with the arm healing thing, but at least this time it seems to be on the right track. I just wish they'd done the surgery 4 months ago, but they waited because it heals on its own in about half the cases. And the operation sounded pretty unsavory.
"It's essentially a filet of arm," said Dr. Yang, without a trace of irony, when he originally discussed the procedure.
"I hear that goes well with fava beans," I said. Neither Paul nor Dr. Yang was amused.
On Friday morning, we had to be at the hospital at 6 AM. The surgery wasn't until 9 or so, but they like for patients to come in early to sit in the waiting room for an hour, so that being cut open will seem like sweet relief when it's time for the operation. At Mount Siani, they give you a beeper (no joke) which buzzes and beeps when it's your turn. It would be more helpful if they just gave you a calendar to figure out when you're going to be called.
Lessons learned: In a hospital 6 am, nothing on earth is less interesting than the June 2004 issue of Golf Digest. Except possibly AARP Magazine, or The Liver Disease Survivors' Fan Club Newsletter. Maybe people have stolen all the good magazines? I flip through an issue of Time Out Chicago. If I weren't in a hospital waiting room, and it weren't 6 AM, and if I were in the greater Chicago area, this would be a much more relevant publication. Did they specifically subscribe to Time Out Chicago, I wonder? Are they that sadistic?
Anyway, Paul survived the operation and is doing well, although he's still on a lot of pain pills (which, of course, are wasted on actual pain). At the hospital, everyone kept asking how he broke his arm. I think he should start lying.
"... and that's why I was kicked off the U.S. Olympic Luge Team," the story might end. It's much better than the version with the wet hardwood floor and the laundry lady and me outside in my nightgown buzzing the doorbell (which, when you see that on paper, sounds much more lurid than it actually was).
Fortunately, Paul doesn't blame me at all for the whole arm-breaking thing. As he says, I'm the "co-Executive Producer" of Paul's Broken Arm. The laundry lady I was helping that fateful day, I guess, is the key grip.
(DISCLAIMER: the title of this blog entry does not imply that my husband, or his arm, is actually a gay cowboy. Not that there's anything wrong with that ...)
posted by Marguerite at 1:02 PM
4 Comments:
I love the broken arm story. He shouldn't lie about it. It's funny just the way it is. Unless, it's not suppose to be funny. Then he should probably lie.
Yeah, sometimes the truth is even funnier than a lie involving the word "luge." Go figure.
I think it's just a tad far-fetched to regale people with this story of wet floors and ladies of the laundry etc. when we all know it was Paul's gay cowboy lover who crushed his arm when he tried "the move"
Yeah, I should have made up a more plausible cover story ...
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