Le Malade

So it’s been awhile. Life gets in the way of trivial pursuits, or is it the other way around? Jack fell on some steep stone steps, and thought nothing of it until his back went out the next day. In his typical fashion, he refused to seek medical attention until late Sunday afternoon when no convenient help was available, so I was wheeling around town trying to find a Doc-in-the-Box, or some such, for his relief.

After discovering many of those centers shut down for the day, I ran into a somewhat local hospital emergency room—a minimum of a six-hour wait, due to the fact that I’m a U. S. citizen with insurance. They gave me the address of another Doc-in-the-Box.

Geez, I’ve heard that a thrown-out back is excruciating, but I made less noise during forty hours of labor! However, the pain didn’t stop dear hubby from YELLING driving instructions at me. I was doing my best for smooth transitions, but he’s the type of driver who thinks it’s foolish to get in the far left lane for a left turn until you’re one foot from said turn. Then you should seamlessly zip across four lanes of traffic without jerking the wheel. I beg to differ.

“What seems to be the problem?” the receptionist asks.

“What does it look like to you? I can barely stand up!” Jack growls.

“Pulled his back out,” I tell her. She hands me the five million requisite forms and a bad pen. This is obviously global medical protocol, followed by the immediate destruction of your information upon completion, as they ask for the exact same data on every subsequent visit.

“You fill them out. I’m in too much pain,” Jack demands. I get to the yes/no box for mental disorders. I am SO tempted.

Three hours and several x-rays later, the Doc-in-the-Box (probably too frightened to re-enter the room) sends in a nurse to give Jack a shot for pain and some prescriptions. “That’s all you get to see," he says, slightly exposing an upper hip. “That’s all I want to see!” she counters.

The next day the poor man was off to France heavily armed with medication for a business trip that requires extreme technical skill. The airlines promptly lost his luggage.

Three days later he calls to tell me he finally got his luggage on the day before his scheduled return. The next day he calls and says he’s been called back to “the site” and is about to get on the plane. “What plane? Where are you?” I ask as his cell phone goes dead. The following day he calls to tell me that his luggage has been lost again. Just as well, air traffic along the entire Eastern seaboard was delayed for hours when an FCC computer shut down forcing air traffic controllers to go manual. This news was only aired once due to the much more important breaking news of Paris Hilton’s misadventures in and out of the hoosegaw.

Jack’s scheduled return—Thursday afternoon; his actual return—Saturday evening, and not in good condition. I had originally planned to go with him to France, but couldn’t get my passport in time. As he hobbled past me into the house, he said, “All I could think was thank God you weren’t with me.”

I decided to take that in a good way.