Every married woman has experienced mansickness. This uniquely masculine disease afflicts all men sooner or later, rendering them bedridden and weak, desperately in need of their wives’ tender mercies. Mansickness is a dreadful disease, draining from the women who encounter it all their compassion and mercy.
So it was that when my 44 year old husband insisted he needed a colonoscopy, I rolled my eyes, mentally patted him on the head, and said, “Yes dear.” I called and verified coverage with the insurance, and I set up the appointment with the specialist, because only a man would insist on a colonoscopy for hemorrhoids.
I told my friends and my mother, all of whom had scoffed with me; “It’s hemorrhoids, ya drama llama,” we all agreed.
The day of the procedure, I dropped him off at the endoscopy center and left to get our kids from school. We planned to spend the afternoon at the park until they called to say he was done. Maybe because I expected them to call me I wasn’t at all alarmed when the nurse called to tell me that Mark was nearly done, and I should be there to talk to the doctor. In fact, I thought, “Great! I get to be there when the doc pats him on the head and tells him it’s hemorrhoids and to stop pushing so hard.”
I loaded the kids into the car, and we drove to the endoscopy center. I settled the children in the waiting room. “Look,” I said, “I just have to go back here and talk to the doctor. If you so much as giggle too loud, you lose your tablet time for a week. Got it?” They seemed sufficiently afraid of me, so I left them and went into the recovery room with my phone and purse.
Mark was out cold, drooling on the pillow. His eyes weren’t completely closed, and for the first time, I felt like maybe he wasn’t just being a drama queen. Mark has perfect, magazine-perfect rich brown curls, just now starting to have shots of silver in them. I ran my fingers through his curls and reminded myself that Mark isn’t the melodramatic one in our marriage. That’s me. From the top of his forehead, I slid my fingers through his hair toward his crown, and I can still feel each curl popping through between my fingers. He was sleeping on his side, and I tucked the covers a little tighter around him, wondering if the kids were still behaving, and excused myself to go peek at them.
Holden sat on a bench and read a book. Ruby played with another little girl in the waiting room. I smiled and mouthed, “Thank you,” at her mother, and as I turned to go back to my husband, the nurse walked up to tell me the doctor was ready. I fumbled with the curtains around his bed, and a nurse pulled them aside for me.
In retrospect, noone’s body language did the situation justice. The doctor seemed relaxed. The nurses were attentive, but no more so than necessary. I slipped back over to my husband’s side and looked at the doctor across his body. “It’s cancer,” he said, with no warning or preamble, and I lost the next few words that he said.
“Wait, wait, I … I need a chair,” I finally stuttered out. Suddenly everyone behaved differently. The doctor became more serious and present.
“Oh, of course,” someone said, and everything else screamed to a halt while I tried to make the room stop spinning. “I need to have someone come get my kids,” I said. “I don’t want them to see either one of us right now.”
I used a standing group message to my two best friends, Hannah and Tabby. “It’s cancer,” I wrote. “I need one of you to come get the kids,” and I typed in the address. Somehow, that act cleared my head and grounded me enough to hear the doctor again.
“It’s cancer,” he repeated, handing me a stack of papers with small photos of my husband's intestines and pointing to a few of them. “Rectal cancer, 8 centimeters from his sphincter, and covering approximately 40% of his rectum. Next we will need a CT scan and an endoscopic ultrasound, and we will refer you to specialists.” He then went over all the post-op paperwork.
As Mark began to wake up and come around, I repeated the diagnosis to him. He seemed confused as he looked at the doctor, who said “it’s cancer,” for the 3rd time.
Mark blearily held eye contact with the doctor before nodding grimly, saying, “I thought so,” and then drifting off to sleep again. #buttcancer #nottodaysatan #daddydearest #mansick
So it was that when my 44 year old husband insisted he needed a colonoscopy, I rolled my eyes, mentally patted him on the head, and said, “Yes dear.” I called and verified coverage with the insurance, and I set up the appointment with the specialist, because only a man would insist on a colonoscopy for hemorrhoids.
I told my friends and my mother, all of whom had scoffed with me; “It’s hemorrhoids, ya drama llama,” we all agreed.
The day of the procedure, I dropped him off at the endoscopy center and left to get our kids from school. We planned to spend the afternoon at the park until they called to say he was done. Maybe because I expected them to call me I wasn’t at all alarmed when the nurse called to tell me that Mark was nearly done, and I should be there to talk to the doctor. In fact, I thought, “Great! I get to be there when the doc pats him on the head and tells him it’s hemorrhoids and to stop pushing so hard.”
I loaded the kids into the car, and we drove to the endoscopy center. I settled the children in the waiting room. “Look,” I said, “I just have to go back here and talk to the doctor. If you so much as giggle too loud, you lose your tablet time for a week. Got it?” They seemed sufficiently afraid of me, so I left them and went into the recovery room with my phone and purse.
Mark was out cold, drooling on the pillow. His eyes weren’t completely closed, and for the first time, I felt like maybe he wasn’t just being a drama queen. Mark has perfect, magazine-perfect rich brown curls, just now starting to have shots of silver in them. I ran my fingers through his curls and reminded myself that Mark isn’t the melodramatic one in our marriage. That’s me. From the top of his forehead, I slid my fingers through his hair toward his crown, and I can still feel each curl popping through between my fingers. He was sleeping on his side, and I tucked the covers a little tighter around him, wondering if the kids were still behaving, and excused myself to go peek at them.Holden sat on a bench and read a book. Ruby played with another little girl in the waiting room. I smiled and mouthed, “Thank you,” at her mother, and as I turned to go back to my husband, the nurse walked up to tell me the doctor was ready. I fumbled with the curtains around his bed, and a nurse pulled them aside for me.
In retrospect, noone’s body language did the situation justice. The doctor seemed relaxed. The nurses were attentive, but no more so than necessary. I slipped back over to my husband’s side and looked at the doctor across his body. “It’s cancer,” he said, with no warning or preamble, and I lost the next few words that he said.
“Wait, wait, I … I need a chair,” I finally stuttered out. Suddenly everyone behaved differently. The doctor became more serious and present.
“Oh, of course,” someone said, and everything else screamed to a halt while I tried to make the room stop spinning. “I need to have someone come get my kids,” I said. “I don’t want them to see either one of us right now.”
I used a standing group message to my two best friends, Hannah and Tabby. “It’s cancer,” I wrote. “I need one of you to come get the kids,” and I typed in the address. Somehow, that act cleared my head and grounded me enough to hear the doctor again.
“It’s cancer,” he repeated, handing me a stack of papers with small photos of my husband's intestines and pointing to a few of them. “Rectal cancer, 8 centimeters from his sphincter, and covering approximately 40% of his rectum. Next we will need a CT scan and an endoscopic ultrasound, and we will refer you to specialists.” He then went over all the post-op paperwork.
As Mark began to wake up and come around, I repeated the diagnosis to him. He seemed confused as he looked at the doctor, who said “it’s cancer,” for the 3rd time.
Mark blearily held eye contact with the doctor before nodding grimly, saying, “I thought so,” and then drifting off to sleep again. #buttcancer #nottodaysatan #daddydearest #mansick
Comments
Post a Comment