Changed da house,
Changed da look.
BTW, my bathrobe's usually pink
and we don't have a fireplace.
Other than that,
it's pretty accurate...
Psst...click the words above to navigate.
Best viewed, unfortunately, in Internet Explorer.
Monday, June 20, 2005
~ Prepatellar Bursitis ~
Usually when I get back home from work, I walk into the living room to be greeted by a rather gleeful looking husband who's halfway through yet another rivetting episode of Doctor Who.
So imagine my surprise when I walked in today, to see him standing rather stiltedly, propped by the arm of the couch. Doctor Who is running in the background along with the usual screaming damsel, but he's not watching it so it must be serious.
My surprise turns into slight alarm when he tells me the following:
1) He can't bend his right knee
2) Actually, it kinda hurts when he's sitting down as well
3) It's rather difficult to walk
4) His right foot feels colder than his left "and sort of tingly"
Apparently, it started this morning at about 10am while he was attending a conference (or a "love-in", as he likes to call it) and he noticed his knee was starting to feel sore. He didn't realise how bad it was until he had to walk down the stairs for the first tea break, and then getting back home on the bus was a bit of a challenge.
Thing is, I only got back from work at 6.15pm; he was back home before 4 because of the conference, and was sitting around waiting for me till then. (That man ah, I tell you...) I don't know whether it was stubbornness, denial, or just his overall aversion to "fussing" over himself that told him he'd wait till I got home before he told me, but he didn't call once. I think he might have sat there and willed his knee to get better, but it didn't of course.
The initial plan was that the financial planner would come over at our place at half past six for a consultation, but that got blown out the window pretty quick when it became apparent that Tony needed more immediate attention. The financial planner came on time (it was too late to call him and cancel) and the poor dude arrived just in time to drive us to Calvary hospital.
So yes, Tony has whatever I wrote as the subject heading. I suspect it comes from many moons of being a goalie at indoor soccer championships. He's on a case of strong antibiotics now and he's presently in bed having a rest, but even that has its little dramas.
For someone who quite loathes being fussed over, this ailment is something of a bane beyond just the physical agony. First, we discussed if I should go into work tomorrow (I wanted to take at least the morning off just in case he got worse, and he didn't want me to fuss.) Then he realises that he can't get in and out of chairs without shots of pain, and that even walking is hard work. Then comes changing into sleeping gear and the simple chore of wearing a pair of socks that suddenly becomes so agonisingly delicate and painful.
The thing is, he's a man who's in his prime. So sitting around and being helpless just isn't the done thing. While I was writing the second paragraph of this entry, I heard him shuffling about and realised he had gotten out of the sofa (when he should be resting and taking full opportunity of my wife/maid services while he still has them). I got out of the study, went into the living room, only to spy him hunching over a Mars bar in the kitchen, half in discomfort and half in total delirious contentment that he made it to the kitchen By Himself.
That's until a fleck of chocolate landed on the floor. Can he reach the floor to pick it up before it melts, in his condition? No. What does he do? He stands there with his mouth still full of incriminating chocolate, and points pathetically at the floor till I come over. I laughed so hard, the neighbours must have wanted to kill me.
For better, for worse, right? I think we just had a glimpse of how intimate two people have to be in a marriage, where privacy on so many levels has to be stripped in order to get things done. Meanwhile, having had a taste of dependence on another person, he now empathises a bit more with why old people stereotypically get grouchier.
Pray for him, if you can.
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