Where the hell are the crutches…

Lola and I are so tired we can only contemplate sitting on the couch for the next week. Unfortunately, Hubster is recovering from surgery and he’s running us ragged.

For the record, this is his second surgery this year, and I told him if anything else creeps up we’re going to have to institute a payment scale for all this nursing I am doing.

For better or worse, my ass.

Last night we had an incident which I can only describe as horrifying. It reconfirmed the fact that I was not cut out to be in the medical field. I unwrapped the bandages and followed my mother’s advice to keep it covered, but not wrapped tight. Now, before you think I’m ridiculously slow-witted, my mother is a registered nurse with over 30 years of experience. Plus, she successfully managed to keep my brothers and myself alive through every idiot idea we had as children. If she tells me to do it, I’m going to listen.

And then I promptly disregarded her advice.

I know, I know. But Hubster’s innards were literally bulging and pushing on the stitches. I had to walk across the room just to dry heave. Poor Hubster panicked as soon as I freaked out. Up until then he was completely unaware that his muscles and other assorted guts were seconds from spilling out of his body.

You know that moment in Alien where the alien is about to burst out of the human chest? Yeah, Hubster’s thigh looked like that. Luckily, as I ran away in a panic, the Hubster had the foresight to grab onto the wall to stop from falling down.

I may have to attach some sort of pulley system to the Hubster using Lola as a counterweight.

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