A hearing aid-dog cartoon

Thursday, August 3, 2017

Today I am grateful for censorship.  Himself is suffering with sciatica.  I have had sciatica for as long as six months.  It’s been a week for him, but I can’t write about it because he reads these blogs. . .and I’d sort of like to stay married.  But this is a tough one to ignore.

So I’m going to censor myself for today.  Maybe a little.  I’m going to try.  So far it isn’t going well.  I have researched everything there is to research on sciatica pain and treatment.  I’m not a smarty pants but I am somewhat of an expert on what works.  Ice.  Then heat maybe.  Then ice.  So I suggest this to Himself.


“I hate being cold!”  He put heat on his posterior and kept it on so long that his ass was “sunburned”.  I’m failing miserably at censorship.  Then he went for a normal visit to the podiatrist and the receptionist saw him hobbling in and asked about it, I’m sure thinking it was his feet since that’s what podiatrists offices focus on.


While she was kindly removing his shoes and socks so he wouldn’t have to bend over (gimme a break) she said, “You should put ice on that.  It takes out the inflammation.”  Himself came home and made this announcement to me.  Really?  Why didn’t I think of that?


There has been a lot of grunting, groaning, push-pulling around here lately. I told him that I could help ease some of his pain if he would just get in the pool with me.  I know all of the stretches and exercises.


“I hate the pool!  I’m not getting in the pool!  The Fourth of July has passed and that’s the only day I would consider getting in a pool.”  Well, I’m not surprised because he doesn’t even like to get wet in the shower.  He takes raindrops falling on him as a personal insult.  Don’t even go there with snow.  So no pool.


Add to that the fact that his hearing aids are no longer fitting properly and whistle constantly in a high pitch squeal that has stray dogs from as far away as North Carolina showing up outside our door.  Drives me insane.  And that isn’t a far trip.


Me:  You’re whistling.

Him: I can’t hear it.

Me:  I know, but I can.  You are whistling.

He pushes them into his ears farther, which usually stops it.  Then eats or drinks something, or groans, or talks and they start again.


Me: You’re whistling.

Him:  I can’t hear it.

Me:  I know, but I can.  You are whistling.

Repeat ten thousand times a day.  I feel like I have tinnitus.  It’s been a lot of fun.  He has an appointment on Friday.  He didn’t want to pay the money, but I will pay anything.  Anything.  To stop that whistling. And let the dogs go home.


He also had an appointment with a great doctor/chiropractor who has healed many friends of the sciatica.  The guy sent him an email with a half dozen long forms he wanted filled out.  I thought we left it that he would go early and fill them out there, because it’s a bit of an ordeal to hook my computer to a printer and he’s never set his up at all.


I get home from water aerobics and tell him people were asking after him and his head pops off and he rants a tirade about printers and ink cartridges and now he’s going to be late and I could at least not ask why he hadn’t put the pillows on the bed and offer to help him.


It was fight 101.  I mentioned, in an outside voice how I had been trying to help him but he was not taking any of my advice.  Then I told him he was stubborn like my mother.  Bam!  Right below the belt!  And I knew it!  Out the door he flew, cursing like a newly hired. . .then fired government employee.  Okay then.


I went to my appointment and came back a few hours later.  Look, we’ve been married almost 35 years.  When you get older the time between nasty words and making peace shrinks.


He told me about the doctor’s manipulation and the exercises he is supposed to do.  I listened.  Full exposure here.  I can listen if I have to and I had compared him to my mother so I owed him and we both knew it.  When he was done I asked, “Did he say anything about getting in a pool?”


He burst out laughing in that Snidely Whiplash way where I’m not sure if it’s mirth or murder on his mind.  “You called me your mother!  That’s low!  Don’t do that again.”

Deal.  I knew I overstepped when I said it, but he was leaving anyway so I gave it a shot.  Timing is everything.


I think the whole debacle is funny, except for the pain part.  That’s why there is no way I’m posting this until he reads it and gives it the go ahead.  I’d like to make it to 36 years.  And I suck at censorship.  Especially my own.


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One Response to Censorship

  1. Marie A. Bishop says:

    Geeeee!!!!! What a lot of patience you have…….!!! Tell “himself” we look forward to him joining us at the “Y” POOL so he can WHISTLE himself into having a good time<OK?????

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