When it comes to surgery, there seems to be two types of folks. Those who puke after they come to and those who do not. I am of the latter. My husband, Adam, which I find so amusing, is the former, that is, he's a big ol' puker.
Today, Adam went to the surgery center in Beverly Hills for shoulder surgery at 6 AM. By Cab, I needn't add for those who know me. I did meet him in the recovery room at 10AM. He looked like he had been under, which made total sense. His right arm was all yellow with Betadine solution. He was groggy but it was clear that this whole thing was a success in terms of avoiding the death that sometimes accompanies being anesthetized. Nurse Julie, sweet person, gave him a Vicodin on an empty stomach. He grew quite nauseous. On the way home I had to pull over. But it was just a false alarm. Aren't most urges to puke just false alarms?
Once home, I made him a little toast with a little hard boiled egg on it. One of those sweet moments in life when you get to take care of your betrothed. He asked me for something to puke in. I was all, "You aren't gonna puke. I've had my appendix out and my sinuses carved up and both times after surgery, I didn't puke. And I have an awful stomach."
He said, "Bring me something to puke in." I brought him a little bowl. He just looked at it like a cat looks at the new puppy.
"Okay, Okay, I'll get you something bigger." And I did. But I won't say what it was since someone reading this might be eating a salad out of it the next time they dine chez nous.
Sure enough, as God made little gay fishes, he puked. Three big splashes in a row. I heard the first one coming up while I was in the kitchen and I quickly gamboled toward him in the living room as I hate to miss any sort of floor show. He said, "Don't come in here." That was between the first and second puke splash. He sounded pretty serious, so I didn't come in.
I was busy putting a coat of clear sealant on the papier-mâché penis sculpture I made him, anyway. (It had become kind of moldy. We Tilexed it to kill the mold and then let it dry in the infrequent global-warming-crazy-weather-shit-what's-going-on California sunshine. So it was time to protect it from future mold. Who wants mold growing anywhere near their penis sculpture?)
He good naturedly finished up his puking after the third splash and announced that he felt way better. I was very happy for him. From that moment on, he was an exemplary patient. He turned on the television and began his usual trout-eyed stare into the screen. Things were back to normal.
I am quite different than my little hubby. Like a horse, I'm not a puker. My body would rather have the offensive stomach hell-mess pass all the way through for a full alimentary torture ride before it all ends in some throne sitting that is somewhat relieving yet wretchedly long overdue.
Adam, he gets right to it, happily pukes, feels way better and even cleans up after himself. What a guy. When someone can puke with such ease and honesty and then has the ability to good naturedly channel surf, you just have to take your hat off to him. Well, not your hat, but something.