So Husband is home all the time now, which makes me really happy for the most part. Except for the fact that the reason he’s home is that he’s in too much pain to be anywhere else – that bit sucks. Oh, and the dealing with doctors’ appointments, documenting for insurance, stressing about him going back to work… all of that stuff sucks too.
The adjustment hasn’t been easy for him, either. I don’t think he’d fully understood just how weird it gets around here during the day, with me doing what I do, until he was here all the time to see it.
But he keeps puttering around, looking for something to occupy that frighteningly agile brain of his (ideally without further aggravating his back) and that interrupts my weird shit and…
ME: (looking up from laptop) Wanna see what I’ve been doing?
HIM: You… photographed your rubber ducks?
ME: Well, it’s not like you were going to help!
HIM: Why is that one holding a compass?
ME: Because Duck Hunt! It’s funny.
HIM: Okay… but why a compass?
ME: You can’t have a rubber duck holding a GUN, jeez! There are laws about that sort of thing!
HIM: (gives up) We have that game downstairs.
ME: I know.
I won’t lie: it’s been nice having him around when I run into a dilemma that requires some of that great problem-solvy* engineerish thinking. And the extra flirting time has been good for us, I think. I mean, you don’t want those flirt muscles to get all lax and flabby, right?
No, you do not.
ME: See, I told you I needed an engineer brain!
HIM: You didn’t need an engineer, you needed a nerd.
ME: I needed an enginerd. (flashes him)
HIM: (pleased) Most enginerds don’t get paid in boobs.
ME: Nah, they mostly get money.
HIM: (deflated) Oh, yeah.
ME: Oh, honey, come back!
ME: (hands him $1)
HIM: Okay, won’t say no to that.
ME: … Actually, can I have that back?
HIM: (shrugs) Show me your tits.
ME: (flashes him again)
HIM: (hands over money)
ME: I can’t believe I just flashed my husband for cash.
HIM: I can’t believe you’re surprised.
Don’t worry, my boobs aren’t doing all the work. There’s also a bevy of doctors and specialists and physical therapists… and Greg The Therapist.** Greg is the one appointment I don’t join in on, but I’m sure he’s fine. Generally, we don’t share therapeutic notes with one another – because that would be weird, and a level of intimacy beyond brushing your teeth while the other person pees, which I also cannot do – but the other day, he came home looking baffled and bursting with the need to share.
HIM: Greg suggested a new hobby, since I can’t do the things I used to enjoy.
ME: Oh? That’s not a bad idea… what did he suggest?
HIM: He said there’s a local club that sits and drinks coffee and watches trains go by, and counts how many cars are on each one, how many engines…
ME: You hate coffee.
ME: And uncomfortable chairs.
ME: And pointless conversation about trains.
HIM: That’s my point! There are companies and agencies that track all of that information! We don’t need people sitting there watching and talking about-
ME: You are such an engineer.
HIM: It’s true, though!
ME: I know, but… that’s like hearing that someone collects stamps and saying, “Uh, you know we’ve got a post office, right?”
HIM: We do!
* Totally a word. Shut up, spell-check.
** I’m a big fan of therapy and think everyone should try it. Also, being forced into medical leave is really rough on people who genuinely enjoy their work. I know lots of people think that all the free time must be nice, but those people truly hate their fucking jobs; Husband is an engineer who sometimes feels like his day was wasted on boring meetings but frequently comes home with stories of how he saved the day with an innovative solution to a problem no one else could figure out.