Last weekend, the HB cut his hand badly. After sprinkling the kitchen very liberally with blood, we fled the scene - him with a kitchen towel wrapped around the 2-inch gash and me with the severe shakes. We spent the night at the emergency room while he tried to convince me that we could save ourselves some money if we just went home and I stitched him (evidently he has always admired my surgical skills very much, and had just forgotten to mention it). Meanwhile, little-brother, who walked in on the gory kitchen scene before I called home to explain, had several minutes to ponder whether the townsfolk had finally stormed the castle to stage a bloody coup.
As a medical resident, the HB is well acquainted with the irony of health care work: that it is bad for your health. He counted himself fortunate to have the following day scheduled off. He spent the entire time puking up Sprite and Vicodin. He is back at work this morning without any pain medication, and a 70% chance of infection probably elevated 200 X by the millions of antibiotic-resistant and flesh-eating bacteria he encounters daily. Flesh eating. Bacteria. Flesh eating, antibiotic-resistant bacteria. And he wonders why I wash the sheets twice daily.
Before heading off to sleep last night, he was in pale and clammy repose on the couch contemplating his recommended antibiotic dosage against the probability that he had puked up most of it so far. He had just off-handedly mentioning that he should probably puke again before taking his evening dose when, with no warning, he jumped up and ran from the room, violently heaving into the dutch oven that has been the ceremonial basin since his own childhood, and which I most certainly will not be making Gratin Dauphinois in this evening.
I would just like to take this moment to acknowledge the man’s planning skills.
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