A husband in hospital
Adoctor’s suggestion that a hospital stay is vital to your health isn’t usually welcome to the ear. Of course, doctors rarely suggest. They order! And occasionally, the doc comes across a person like my Dearly Beloved (DB) who causes him to regret he ever took up medicine as a career.
Patients like DB aren’t welcome in consulting rooms at the best of times and I’m sure our regular consultant bitterly regrets writing on his file ‘next appointment on 5 December.’
The minute DB reads this, his brow lowers and he says: “I can’t come that day because it’s my wedding anniversary.” Since he has often caused a family crisis by forgetting our anniversary, I snigger.
DB gives me a hostile glare. Anyway, he keeps the date… only to be told that now, an orthopaedist’s care is on the cards. Surgery is imminent.
“How can I suddenly go lame?” he asks belligerently, trying hard to walk normally on a painful knee .The surgeon is kind and doesn’t tell him that sheer neglect caused his present dilemma. I don’t help with my ‘I told you so’ attitude.
He enters hospital under protest – and packs his latest novel, electric shaver, favourite cologne (DB expects visitors in his hour of need) and an array of attractive sarongs plus matching shirts. He’s simply not hospital savvy.
“You won’t need all this,” we tell him. “After surgery, you wear only hospital gowns. They need to wash you and get to all parts of your body easily.”
“Nonsense! A sarong is easier to shed than a hospital gown, whatever that is.”
Clearly, he’s not a frequent beneficiary of medical science.
DB has the surgery and it’s very painful; and during the first three days, he doesn’t care if he remains totally nude. We gather round him in a state of high concern. A complaining husband can be shushed. A suffering one is another matter.
But then he begins to recover and things start to get back to normal. He greets us on the third day wearing a mutinous expression and his hospital gown.
“I want to go home. There are women washing me and giving me baths, and doing all sorts of things.”
“So for three days you kept quiet?”
“I only noticed now.”
“Cheer up. They are nurses and quite used to seeing men in states of undress.”
“They may be used to it but I’m not!” He doesn’t care who hears his tones of outrage. “Where are the male nurses?”
The matron bustles in. “Now, Mr. G. We have to change the sheets and towels so you can sit comfortably on a chair.” “Nothing is comfortable.”
“Now we have given you a special armchair, no?”
“Yes, but I like the bed.”
“Now, now Mr. G!” She gives him a roguish smile, which he disregards completely.
“So where are the male nurses?” he asks as three women settle him in his armchair.
DB likes pretty women so he asks the question once the nurses have left the room.
“Aiyo Mr. G, most of them are women.” He is outraged all over again. “You mean to tell me that all the men allow strange women to do these (he pauses) – you know… intimate things?”
“They are nurses, Sir. They’re trained for all this. Don’t worry,” she adds hastily, seeing that he is ready to treat her to his opinion for the third time.
But back home, DB misses the other little attentions and the cooing sounds his nurse makes when giving him his morning cup of tea.
I’m not a cooer, and say rather unsympathetically: “Don’t be a baby.”
“You know,” I overhear him telling his pals on the phone, after making sure I’m listening. “I should have recuperated in hospital where they really look after you. They even powdered my toes after my baths.”
If need be, he is ready for another hospital stay.