As I am typing this, the Husband is at the emergency room. Why? Well, he bashed his finger pretty badly the other day. Twelve days ago, to be exact. He originally went to the ER at our local hospital not too long after he tried removing a transmission from a washing machine that didn’t quite want to give it up.
While he was there a doctor he had dealt with before made some unfortunate comments that caused me to receive the following text: “I won’t ever come here again, not even if I’m dying. I’m coming home, please make me a pizza.” Oh my.
Suffice it to say, said doctor’s Napoleon complex has been reprimanded back into a more manageable size. It’s hard enough to get men to seek medical help but the Husband has to be careful being a diabetic and that was the only thing that convinced him to go in the first place.
Fast forward and it’s tonight that there is now puss coming from the original wound despite gentle cleanings and applications of Neosporin, They might need to remove the nail, in fact I’m sure they will and the gory details will roll from there.
I love my husband. I wish he had gone to his PMD but he is driven to provide and can’t take time until it’s forced upon him. He’ll be back to service calls tomorrow at 9am despite it all. God love him.