by Annette Dashofy
My husband absolutely hates it when I blog about him. However, considering I have spent the past few days at the hospital—driving him to the emergency department and then visiting him—and as such, have nothing else to use for material for this blog, he’s outta luck. If you don’t want to be the subject of my blogging, quit doing stupid shit. Darling.
Flash back to Thursday afternoon. I was minding my own business, fixing dinner, and getting ready to go teach two yoga classes. Hubby rolled in from work followed by a buddy who was buying the leftover heating oil from our old furnace (the new heat pump is on back order, thank you very much). The two of them started loading 50 gallon drums of oil onto the buddy’s trailer when something went awry. Hubby came to the door, calling my name in a tone that sounded rather odd. He stood there with one hand wrapped around one finger of the other hand and announced that he had smashed his finger between the drums and broken it.
Sweetheart that I am, my first inclination was to tell him “drive yourself to Med Express. I have to teach yoga.” Then he opened his hand, revealing the finger in question. You know how a ripe grape pops open when you squeeze it? It was kind of like that. Only bloody. Very. Bloody.
Okay. Maybe driving himself to the doctor wasn’t such a good idea.
I whipped out the first aid kit, complete with all the goodies including popsicle sticks for splints. I barely managed to get a couple of gauze sponges around the smashed finger. When I reached for the splinting material, hubby ordered me to just put some tape on it and let’s go.
Later, in the emergency department, they commented on the ugly bandaging job. In my defense, it was the best he would hold still for.
I made some frantic phone calls to line up a substitute yoga teacher and to confirm from Med Express that the hospital was, indeed, the place we should go. Then, after shutting off the stove (no time for supper), we drove to the hospital.
Have I mentioned that I used to be an EMT? Or that my protagonist in my current WIP is a paramedic? Honestly, I don’t need help from my hubby to do the research. I’ve spent plenty of time in the ER (ED, these days…department, not room). However, the doctor was more than happy to let us look at the injury while he cleaned out the excess blood and gook, although he offered some concern that one or the other of us might pass out. Not a problem. It was actually rather interesting.
Bottom line: the middle bone of his left ring finger was in four or five pieces and the tendon was split. He’s had surgery. He’s home with the bones pinned and the finger splinted and bandaged. And he has discovered the joys of Vicodin.
And me? I have a drugged hubby hanging the house for the next week or so. He can’t get that bandage wet and he only has one useable hand. Any suggestions for activities that he can do that will get him out of my hair so I can do some writing?
(FYI, if it was me, I’d be reading, but he’s not big on that particular pastime.)