Ev accidentally tried to kill me...but it's all good

(F-bomb! F-bomb! F-bomb!) This has been one of the most (f-bomb) challenging weeks of my (f-bomb!) life. Wow. Once my happy freezing wore off and “witty Kirstie” from the OR faded (I was still hilarious in recovery, by the way, giggling uncontrollably as the tingling of the spinal wore off, “my bum! My bum!”), I was faced with some of the most intense pain and discomfort that I have ever experienced. My previous “lady part” surgeries were always accompanied by pain; however, I’ve never experienced such constant, sharp pain that even the most potent painkillers were unable to suppress. I recall looking at the clock 1 hour after I had taken Dilaudid and immediately began counting the hours until I would be able to take another. The pain scared me. Although I’m fully aware that it could have been worse and it is much worse for some (I DO work in a hospital),  I have to admit, on a scale of 1 to BAD, this, for me, has been BAD.

My mom has been a superstar. She stayed with me for the first 3 days and spent countless hours wiping the tears from my face, holding my hair back while I puked, brushing my teeth, helping me to the bathroom, and preparing and delivering anything and everything that might even remotely make me feel better. Thank you, mom! Ev tried too. He did. But he’s not mom. Poor Ev was working 14 hour days between the business and the firehall and stopping by our home whenever he could to help out in any way possible. Unfortunately, at one point, I was afraid that Ev was accidentally trying to kill me. I don’t think it was intentional. I just think that he was overwhelmed, exhausted, and in the process, accidentally tried to kill me. No biggie. Perhaps he was returning the favor – I accidentally tried to kill him when he was recovering from surgery in 2005.

We were living in Texas and Ev was playing for the Rio Grande Killer Bees. Ev was diagnosed with a hernia just prior to play-offs. It protruded out of his groin area and freaked out his teammates in the showers. But Ev had never played better. The hernia seemed to drive him – perhaps it kept his “busy” mind off of the pressures that were upon him as play-offs loomed. The team Doctor examined him, diagnosed him, prescribed some pain meds, and encouraged him to carry on as best as possible until the season was over. So, night after night, Ev made the big saves, pushed in the protruding hernia, and carried on like a champ. That’s my boy!

Once the season came to an abrupt halt in double overtime of game 7 of the first series (I wasn’t freaking out at all!), the team doc encouraged Ev to come in for surgery ASAP. Once Ev agreed, he was booked for surgery within days.

I could not believe my eyes as a doorman (yes, a doorman!) opened the doors to one of the most beautiful hospitals I have ever seen! This is what kick-ass insurance buys you! – nice. This hospital was an architectural dream – water features lined the walls and the serene waterfalls splashed into pools, filling the hospital with calming sights and sounds.

“Mr. Lindsay?”

Ev was greeted at the desk by an angelic looking woman who immediately placed a bracelet around Ev’s wrists.

“Come with me. Your surgery will be within the hour.”

Wha? Are you kidding? No hours and hours of sweating, freaking out, and nervously preparing for slaughter?

“Mrs. Lindsay, here’s a beeper. You go ahead and do some shopping and we will page you when your husband’s surgery is over.”

Wow. Now THIS was surgery. Can I get a whoot whoot!

After a few hours of shopping, my pager went off, indicating that Ev’s hernia was (hopefully) no longer protruding out of his groin like a second belly button.

As I entered Ev’s “recovery room” (a private room with flat-screen TV and lazy boy recliner), Ev began to stir from his anesthetic.

He pathetically put his arms out in front of him, inviting a hug from his precious wife.

“Aw....poor Ev.”

I slung my 90 pound Coach purse over my shoulder and leaned over his bed to give him a hug.

As I did so, the 90 pound Coach purse slipped off my shoulder and landed straight on his....groin. With a thud. The very site of his newly acquired stitches.

exhibit A: killer Coach

“Aaaaggggghhhhh!”

Shit. Ev’s personal nurse came bolting in the room, glaring angrily at me.

“Are you trying to kill him?” she scolded.

“Um. No. I’m sorry?” I meekly uttered.

Reluctantly, she eventually sent him home with me that day. I felt like the worst wife ever. Ev has made certain that I don’t forget that story – it seems to be a fan favorite at dinner parties, campfires, etc.

So, to be honest, I wasn’t really surprised or shocked when Ev accidentally tried to kill me just a few days ago, as I recover my surgery.

I had entered my 6^th straight hour of barfarama. For some reason, I consistently turn green, get the shakes, and go on a pukefest 3-4 days after each and every surgery that I endure. I’m not sure if it’s a combo of pain, meds, and/or anesthetic, but it never fails, just when I begin to feel as though the worst is over, the barfing begins.

Mom held my bucket and wiped a cool cloth on my head as I struggled to ralph without jolting my knee in any way (keep in mind, the knee is held straight out in front of me in a giant brace at all times – and for the next 6-8 weeks). Finally, as the nausea subsided, I began to think about attempting to digest some food.

Ev returned home that afternoon to find me in this horrid state and asked if there was anything he could get for me.

“Applesauce,” I mumbled.

Ev ran to the kitchen and promptly brought me a bowl of applesauce.

I painfully pulled myself up to a sitting position and eagerly brought the spoon of applesauce to my lips. I envisioned the cool, refreshing applesauce sliding effortlessly down my esophagus, warming my stomach and immediately terminating the nausea.  I hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours. This was going to be good.

As the cold applesauce entered my mouth, a horrible sour, fermented, barf-like taste overtook my senses.

“AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!” I shrieked as I spit out the horrid applesauce into my hands.

Panicking, Ev took away the bowl and handed me a towel.

“What’s wrong, Kirst?”

“It’s bad. The applesauce is bad. It’s fermented. What’s the date on this?” I simultaneously sobbed and dry-heaved as I noticed the mold growing on the edges of the applesauce with the March 2012 expiry date.

Exhibit B: moldy applesauce

“Are you trying to kill me?” I asked.

And then I recalled the hernia. Yep, he was.

Of course, Ev felt utterly horrible about what had happened. It was a complete accident – just as the 90 pound coach purse slamming into his fresh wound had been nearly 7 years ago.

So now we’re even.