A couple of weeks ago the other half got to swan off to Sydney for work, where he was put up in a fancy hotel and got to eat decent food while relaxing to the dulcet tones of no children. Then he returned home and promptly announced that he didn’t feel well. A trip to the doctor ended up in a trip to the hospital and a whole lot of tests, including a lumbar puncture. All tests were clear, but he now had a crippling headache caused by the lumbar puncture which was only relieved when lying down. After a few days of this, he had a little collapse and ended up back in hospital where they ummed and aahed about whether to do an epidural blood patch (injecting his blood into the site of the lumbar puncture which usually cures the headache). Eventually they decided it would be better for all concerned if he were to ride it out, and ‘would I mind terribly much looking after this grumpy specimen of manhood until his headache went?’
‘Don’t worry,’ they said, ‘it will probably only take a week’.
Now all this was pretty upsetting, as you can imagine, but please save your sympathy for when I tell you what happened next.
There he was, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed as he changed out of his gown and back into his regular clothes, chatting about how pleased he was to be going home, when it happened. . . he put on one sock, and then he completely messed with my mind by putting his shoe on, without putting a sock on the other foot first. When he saw my look of horror, he laughed like it was no big deal. Laughed! Either that lumbar puncture messed with his mind, or after ten years he still doesn’t know me at all.
Over the next few days I tiptoed round the place, and tried not to say anything upsetting like, ‘would you like me to make you a coffee?’, or ‘shall I get you a painkiller?’, or ‘shall I rub your aching muscles, yes even THAT one?’ A terse monosyllabic reply was usually forthcoming, but still I persevered with my loving ministrations. (Don’t believe him if he tries to tell you otherwise. I’m pretty sure I only swore at him in my head.)
Did I mention that I also had our daughter home that whole time with a nasty dose of tonsillitis? I’m pretty sure that Martyr of the Year Award will be arriving any day now.
After eight days, 6 hours and forty-three minutes, his headache finally went and he was ready to become an active member of society again. How did he repay me? With a big grin on his face he got dressed in front of me, put one sock on, then his jeans and shirt, before putting that other damned sock on. And then my head exploded.
I think these are reasonable grounds for divorce.