The tale can now be told. I am on the mend from the Christmas crisis, the staples are removed, the hand still works, and the good doctor told me that the pain would get better in three months. Sheesh! I hope it gets better sooner, but hey, at least I still have a hand. It wasn’t until after the surgery and I could move my hand that the doctor told my R that there was a chance I might have lost my right hand. Nice. No, not!
At any rate, the tale of Nurse Rachet can now be told. My R is the most loving, caring, sweet, and helpful human being I have ever known. From day one his main object in our life together has been to love, support, and take care of me. And, I might add, he has done a very admirable job of it. However, as everyone on the planet knows, a good thing can go a bit too far.
On day one home from the hospital R showed up with my meds and proclaimed that “Nurse Rachet” was here to take care of me. Okay, this is not bad, I thought. He brought me my meals, changed the dressing on my incision, plumped up my pillows, changed the TV channel for me, read me magazine articles, walked me to the bathroom, walked me up and down the stairs, helped me get dressed, pulled on my socks, and on and on and on. What a great nurse, right?
Well, for the first couple of days as I was healing and getting out of my drug induced fog, this was wonderful. All I had to do was blink my eyes and some comforting thing was done for me by Nurse Rachet. On about the third day however, Patient Crochety kicked in and all hell broke loose. Left to his own devices Rachet would have turned me into a helpless piece of vegetative flesh unable to do even the tiniest thing for myself. The battle line was drawn. It was Rachet vs. Crochety.
He would try to help, I would get crochety and tell him I could do it myself now. I was getting better I said, and the doctor told me (I even had it in writing) that I could do any of my usual activities so long as there was no pain or obvious sign that it would cause my death. No matter to Rachet, he knew best and for at least the next two weeks he was determined to take care of me. Hrrump! Crochety pouted, plotting how to find a way to sneak in an independent move or two. When Rachet was downstairs making breakfast, Crochety would sneak into the bathroom and take a quick shower. Rachet wouldn’t even leave Crochety alone in the house so this was a bit harder to accomplish because Rachet had also convinced DD2 that Crochety was now not only helpless, but crochety because of the pain I was in. Probably true, but R was relentless in ordering me to bed, to rest, to not lift anything, to not walk too far, to not this and to not that!
Of course, the more Rachet-y he became the more crochet-y I became and for that first week home it was often times not very pretty. Gratefully, I slept a lot and, when I was really in pain I was thankful for the help and attention and the meds. Rachet, patient, loving, kind soul that he is, kept chalking my crochet-y-ness up to my pain and just smiled at me which, of course, made it worse. How we survived is one of those unsolvable mysteries in life, but we did. Somehow, as time went on, he racheted back and I crochet-y-ed less and less until, two weeks later things are pretty much back to our normal personalities. He still won’t let me drive to work, but I think next week he’ll get tired of that and I’ll be back behind the wheel.
But, God bless him, this wonderful man just wanted to make my life easier and my healing faster. And, thanks to his patience and understanding he has reached his goal. Mission accomplished. Patient Crochety has now disappeared into the woodwork taking Nurse Rachet with her!