My business is stanching blood and feeding fainting men . . .
“You’ll do anything to feel-up the girls, won’t you?”
AL of threadingwater
Being married to an athlete is a bit like living in a mosh-pit. It’s all rah-rah fun and games until the guy on stage takes a dive with an injury requiring surgical intervention. Around our house, this happens approximately once every 2.35 years, give or take a month.
We probably know more physical therapists, medical specialists, physicians, chiropractors, massage therapists and nurses on a first-name basis than anyone in our region of the country. Hell, even our construction contractor is a former EMT.
But, when Greatest Husband took a dead faint dive from the stage this week following outpatient spinal surgery (I’ll let you linger over that phrase for a moment) there was no one in the mosh pit but yours truly – in the bathroom, at 12:30 a.m., trying to support the weight of a male human being who, for all I could tell, might have actually expired since my screams and poundings upon his colorless body were rousing him not one bit.
The happy ending is that he did “come to” after a short while, and I was able to safely get him back into bed whereupon he commenced asking me to get him a sleeping pill.
Clara Barton had it easy.