He’s used to being on the other side of the stethoscope, this one.
The one treating patients, not the one being treated.
But as Super-Spouse has received official retirement orders from the U.S. Army, this sweet soldier of mine has finally decided that, after 20 years of his own medical “self-treatment” (AKA, neglect), he might actually want to take care of the body that has been so busy selflessly serving soldiers that it hasn’t made an appointment to take care of itself in two decades.
(The bones that broke on the deployment of 2012 when he was the only physician in a remote area are apparently not going to treat themselves. Who knew?)
So as he’s begun attending the slew of medical appointments required for military personnel as they begin out-processing from the Army, he’s also begun finally rescheduling the surgeries and procedures that were originally slated for THREE YEARS AGO (Lord have mercy) and again the week our state, because of Covid-19, shut down.
This week, the ambulatory surgery center where Super-Spouse was referred for his foot and ankle re-opened for non-emergency surgery, and on Thursday, we drove the hour and a half for this sweet soldier to receive only the second surgery he’s ever had in our 16-year-long marriage.
For five hours, while Super-Spouse was required to move back to pre-op alone, I was permitted to sit in the socially distanced waiting room with a total of only five other family members who ever walked through front doors.
The nurses, worried about the length of time my sweet man was alone in pre-op, were apologetic about all the new procedures to conduct surgery safely during a pandemic — blocked off chairs for social distancing, frequent hand sanitizing, required masks in the waiting room, a nurse who literally came around disinfecting every chair and surface in the waiting room every hour, even when I was the only human in said waiting room for three of those five hours.
But really, Super-Spouse was reveling in no-child-jumping-on-him naptime, and I was just so exhilarated by the first block of silence I’d enjoyed since we’d been social distancing in our home that I didn’t even notice.
After eight weeks with four beautiful children whose voice levels hover around the decibel of a jet, five hours with a book and a newspaper and no children asking for Breakfast No. 7 or inquiring about Common Core math in a silent waiting room felt like a day at the spa.
Especially when a nurse noticed me shivering in the corner and actually brought me a blankie.
From the warmer.
Because this, friends, is apparently not military medicine up in here.
By the time Super-Spouse’s doctor had corrected his bunion and cleaned up his arthritis and inserted plates and screws and realigned his foot, that incredible warrior of mine was totally coherent, smiling and begging the discharge nurse for coffee.
Because soldier life dies hard, and pain blockers are apparently magic.
As I helped this man who, at the time, looked like he simply had a splinter removed into the back seat of the vehicle after being briefed in the waiting room by the discharge nurse, I asked him if he felt up for any food.
The discharge instructions said to start with light, bland, easy-to-digest foods first following anesthesia and surgery, and having had experience with purple popsicle being vomited all over me in post-op rooms following multiple kiddo surgeries, I took this directive extremely seriously.
Clearly so did he, because five seconds later, after 18 hours without sustenance, we found ourselves in the Freddy’s fast food parking lot downing the burger-hot-dog-and-milkshake combination and dating like ravenous teenagers. With no children to ask for a bite.
Rules are important.
By the time we walked in the door with the man on heavy narcotics in a rocket-bottom boot, the boys (who, shout out, had done a BEAUTIFUL job of not only preparing food and cleaning the house but also helping each other with homeschool all morning while we were gone) had just one question for Dad:
“Wait, you’re immobilized?! Does this mean you can’t beat us up in wrestling matches right now?!”
As I kept the little wrestlers eager for their first Daddy win away from the man whose pain blocker was quickly wearing off, I settled Super-Spouse in the crook of the couch with prop pillows, a blankie, a needy dog who insisted on sitting on his face after a morning of separation and his phone to dial me with his 911, and then quickly scooped the obnoxious male humans into the large vehicle they have only ridden in a handful of times in the last eight weeks of isolation.
A two-hour ride making local deliveries viewing the outside world from their windows after eight weeks of quarantine was just the bribe they needed to give that man I love so much what HE needed.
A silent nap.
By the time we returned home, Super-Spouse was waking up to the reality that had apparently not struck him when he told me following surgery, “That was so easy! I should do the other foot next week!”
The fact that surgery hurts.
Because, though he was on a counter full of prescribed medications, that sweet man was in miserable pain all night long.
Yesterday, when I drove him to his follow-up appointment, I caught him wincing as the nurse removed his bandage and gave him his first view of his newly aligned foot.
The foot, though swollen, was absolutely beautiful.
Straight, for the first time aligned and, as my friend Kara put it, sewn up with something that could only be described as “Hobbit art.”
The pain, I could tell though, was through the roof.
“Baby, what pain level would you say you’re at right now?” I asked, grabbing his hand and mentally calculating how many hours it had been since his last pain med.
“Probably a six,” he mustered, closing his eyes.
“Super-Spouse. That does NOT look like a six. That looks like a 10,” I said, pointing to the foot that looked more like a snow shoe and the soldier who was taking deep breaths like he was in Lamaze class. “What would it take for you to be at a 10?” I asked him curiously.
That’s when, in true soldier fashion, he looked at me dead seriously and in no-joke manner replied, “Being shot.”
And this is what happens when your life standard is battlefield medicine.
Super-Spouse will be in a rocket-bottom shoe for several weeks and will be able to walk on it as tolerated. Once he’s off pain meds, he’ll be able to drive and walk and work as he can. But, although he can enjoy low-impact activity in eight weeks, he won’t be able to run or jog again for 12.
Something my precious PA forgot to ask in all those pre-op appointments he attended alone, because when I asked about recovery for him yesterday, he was shocked at the three-month ban on his favorite exercise.
That’s when his surgeon’s PA, who also noticed the shock in Super-Spouse’s eyes, turned to me and said, “You know what we say around here? Wives save lives.”
Welcome to the other side of the exam table, sweet medical provider of mine.
Your medical life is now in MY hands.