I am sure there are many reasons God made wives. There are many reasons we promise to love our husbands “for better or for worse”. When faced with the prospect of a visit to the doctor for the husband, many of those reasons become crystal clear.
El Hubbo has been hurting for a year now. This is nothing to laugh about, and it does pain me to watch him limp around stock shows and hear him moan and rub his hip at night. Of his own will, he went to his general practioner, who sent him to an osteoarthritis doctor, who diagnosed him with arthritis in his hip and gave him lots of lovely medications.
But, as luck would have it, the medications do not work. The pain pills, which would cause me to act like a three-day drunk, barely even phase him. He seeks relief from a chiropractor and a medical massage therapist. Each offered slight, brief relief, but nothing “fixes” the problem.
My big, beautiful, loving husband has taken on the personality of a crabby, difficult teenager. I try to balance my thoughts of strangling him with thoughts that he is in pain and I should be patient. He went back to his osteoarthritis doctor who finally did an MRI and decided he should refer El Hubbo to an orthopedic surgeon.
So, we prepare for the surgeon. A large packet of paperwork arrives at the house. We fill it out and El Hubbo contacts the osteoarthritis doctor’s office (we shall refer to him now as Dr. Jekyll as typing osteoarthritis is greatly increasing my odds for arthritis) for a copy of his MRI to be sent to the orthopedic surgeon (orthopedic is also a long word, so we will call him Dr. Bacon, but Bacon is not really his name. I just like Bacon.)
You have to understand the history between El Hubbo and Dr. Jekyll’s office. He calls, they don’t call him back. He gets mad, and we start the cycle again. I asked him on the way to Dr. Bacon’s office if he had called to make sure Dr. Jekyll’s office had sent the MRI. El Hubbo responds, “No, I called like I was supposed to and even told them I would pick it up and they said they would fax it.” I told him I thought he should have called Dr. Bacon’s office to see if it was received. He says, “No! It is not my job to make sure they do theirs. They said they would fax it and they had better have done it.” I said, “Well, then I don’t want to hear it when you get there and find out it wasn’t done.” He begins to raise his voice, “Why should I? It had better be there! And before you say it, don’t call me cranky!” So, I mutter under my breath, “Stubborn old mule.”
We have a short argument regarding my ability to locate the building the doctor’s office is located in. (I was right, but it gave the stubborn old mule something to fuss at me about.) We get upstairs to check in and guess what? They didn’t have the MRI. Yep, El Hubbo was mad. The nice receptionist called Dr. Jekyll’s office and had them fax the MRI report over. I just stood quietly and wrote out the check for the co-pay.
We’re sent across the hall for an x-ray. El Hubbo looks at me (slightly ashamed) and says, “I guess you can say “I told you so” now.” I respond, “I ain’t sayin’ nuttin.” But I did say that with the “I told you so” tone and the patented raised eyebrow. He gets his x-rays, we go back across the hall and they take us back to the exam room.
Dr. Bacon’s nurse begins to ask questions. This is the point wherein I realized one of the major reasons God made wives was to go to doctor visits with their husbands and make sure they don’t lie to the nurse/doctor. The conversation went something like this:
Nurse: “On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is the pain today?”
El Hubbo: “Oh, about a 3. Today it isn’t so bad. Some days maybe a 6 or 7.”
Nurse: “Does it ever keep you from sleeping?”
El Hubbo: “Not really. Sometimes it hurts a little, but once I go to sleep, I’m out!”
Me: “It does keep him from sleeping, and he often complains about not having been able to sleep.” The nurse looks back at El Hubbo and he shrugs.
Nurse: “Does it cause you to limp.”
El Hubbo: “Sometimes.”
Me: “Yes – he has limped consistently for a couple months now.”
El Hubbo goes on to amend his original answer while I am (1) wondering who that person is that I walked in with and (2) contemplating throwing my cell phone at his head.
When the doctor comes in, there is a similar routine conducted. The doctor confirms El Hubbo’s fear that he would in fact have to have surgery. But, he wants to see the MRI so that he can determine whether we are looking at a partial or a complete hip replacement. So, we get to go back to the doctor in two weeks.
I have concluded that it is the male “macho” gene that causes this irrational answering to questions. But, fortunately, my stubborn old mule has a wife that is willing to fill in the blanks for him. Mainly because I promised for better or for worse, and because I know he needs some relief (actually, we all need some relief), and because despite it all I love my El Hubbo. Even if he is cranky.
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