I was excited about our first Christmas as a married couple. And every time I introduce My Guy as "my husband" is still a trip, even after 2 and a half years.
I never had the same giddiness about the first time I'd drive my bleeding husband to the emergency room.
When it came right down to it, though, I did have butterflies in my stomach. When I saw all the blood, I had to sit down because I thought I might pass out.
Yeah. So. Saturday, we finally finished sandblasting the stone walls of our porch and proceeded to demolish the rotted walls of said porch. The problem with wood rot, though, is that that shit is totally unpredictable. It might look OK-ish, but a little tap and you discover that, oh, the entire front of your porch is actually hollow. Oh, and there never were any actual posts holding it up, anyway - just those rotted 2 x 6s.
Ha! Ha ha!
This also means that when your sweet husband goes to remove a window, the tiniest movement makes the glass shatter. And that glass is old-school, non-tempered glass. Danger glass.
Ohhhh. You guys. I saw it happen. And I knew it was bad because he didn't cuss. He just calmly pulled the sandwich-sized chunk of glass out of his forearm.
I ran in the house and sacrificed two dish towels to use as bandages. He still didn't say anything. So, we just stood in the front yard and he bled all over the place ... and then I realized that freakin' Creepy Chuck was headed our way. That's when Calm Emergency Cha Cha took over.
I looked my husband in the eyes. "We are walking to the garage now. We have to go now, because Creepy Chuck is coming over."
My Guy didn't say anything. We walked to the garage, effectively avoiding our weird neighbor.
Then, I got to really look at the gash.
Then, I sat down on the floor and tried not to barf.
Then, Calm Emergency Cha Cha showed up again and informed her husband that they were going to the emergency room because he needed stitches.
We had never considered which ER is closest to our house. Friends, listen to me now and hear me later: figure that shit out before you need the information. Because when your husband is bleeding out all over your garage is not the time to research it, even if your garage is easily hosed out.
We got in the car. Calm Emergency Cha Cha even remembered My Guy's wallet. We drove to the ER, which took super long because we hit every light. Calm Emergency Cha Cha evidently still abides the rules of the road.
And then the people at the ER were really nice and were probably just excited that we weren't using their facility as our primary care and our emergency didn't involve something stuck up an orifice. My Guy was worried because he was covered in dirt and dust, but every staffer he apologized to laughed and assured him that he wasn't even close to the dirtiest patient.
While it seemed to me that he was in danger of losing his arm, My Guy reported his pain as being a 1 on a scale of 1 to 10. It wasn't even my arm, and my pain level was at least a 7.
He only got 3 stitches. But I'm here to tell you: I didn't like it. I prefer my loved ones to stay gash-free.
My Guy convalesced on the couch for a few hours - just long enough to watch the Mizzou football team beat fifth-ranked Georgia - and then he was done being an invalid. He was back working on the porch. Because he's a dude.
I can tell his arm hurts because he openly talks about "Wound" in the saddest little voice. Like, "Have you seen Wound? I am so woundy!" But the porch demo was completed in time for Sunday's NFL games, and he's not too pumped about me being all smother-lovey about it.
I can't help the smother love. I feel like he defied death. And dammit, I love my husband.
If he and Wound could avoid further injury, that would be cool.