Some mornings I wake up and have to wrack my brain to think of something to blog about. This only happens rarely, as there is always something going on around here. However, this morning was one of those unusual mornings where I woke up and thought, “Ugh. I really need to blog today… what am I going to write about?” And then my husband decided to go for the blood work the doctor ordered last week.
My husband is not a little guy. He is six-foot-two-inches tall and he’s strong; he can grow a beard in a matter of days due to his Irish genes that are constantly shoving hair through his skin night and day. The shoes he wears are a size thirteen and could double as a canoe and save the lives of my children during a flood.
Notwithstanding his manly appearance, my poor husband despises needles. So much so that if his inner elbow is even touched by my hand he blanches and his insides begin to churn. He needs to be restrained if the need arises for splinter removal, and stubbing a toe requires bed rest in order to make a complete recovery.
Needless to say, it greatly surprised me to see him up and preparing to go to the lab this morning without my pestering him about it for weeks and weeks. I tried not to think about what was happening the whole time he was gone because I just couldn’t see how it would help; instead I tried to focus on controlling the spurt of giggles that was sure to issue forth from my mouth on seeing him stumble through the door in the manner of a person who has had a near-death experience.
Sure enough, on his arrival home he turned the key in the door and lurched into the living room looking like there wasn’t blood enough left in his whole body to set a little color to his cheeks. So much for trying to be kind: my nostrils flared and my lips pursed with the effort it took to maintain a straight face. He tap-danced into the dining room with his squirmy legs going a mile a minute in his distress.
“How did it go?” I ask.
“It was horrible! They took two HUGE vials of blood and then a small one! They were like this big,” he insists while measuring an imaginary four-inch tube, “I should have taken a glass of juice with me or something.”
“They usually have…” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“…And then my shoe fell off because I was squirming in my seat so much. I was trying to think about the kids, but then I couldn’t concentrate because my shoe was on the floor. You should have gone with me!” he whines while high stepping around the dining room unable to keep still. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to work today- I’m not going to be able to use my arm… I should have asked for a sling… or a note for work. It hurt so much! I must have sensitive veins or something.”
That last part about did it for me. “You DO NOT have sensitive veins! What does that even mean? Do you know how often I have to go and get stuck?! And I always bruise!” I screeched (because I’m apparently incapable of acting like an adult one-hundred-percent of the time myself).
He stopped pacing long enough to think about how silly his last statement sounded and he even managed a chuckle. I patted him on the back and told him how proud I was that he went to the lab all by himself without being threatened on pain of death. That helped, but I think he was really hoping for a lollipop and for me to swab his forehead with a cool cloth while murmuring what a “poor baby” he was.
“You know,” he muttered, “I think I told her to think how silly it would be if I was a sky-diving instructor and yet couldn’t sit still for a needle.” His thought processes are just weird that way. I guess that’s part of the reason I love him so much.
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