The art of spousal medical care

There are several jobs at which I would excel. Every job that I have ever had, I have done very well.

There is one job that I have been called upon to perform as a volunteer, but which I do not perform well.

I am not, nor will I ever be, a good nurse.

My mother worked as a nurse. My paternal grandmother was a nurse.

This weekend, I have once again been unwillingly drafted into the position of Nurse. And again, I do not handle it well.

Husband had claimed that his right leg was swollen. He would stand before me, raising the legs of his pants, showing me his legs. “Can you tell any difference?” he’d ask. I tried to figure out what was to be the right answer.

“No” I said, “What is the difference?’

Clearly, I was supposed to be able to see that one leg was swollen. I could not.

Finally, I told him to make an appointment with the clinic- after he had asked me several times what could possibly be wrong with his leg. As I didn’t really see much wrong with it at all, I couldn’t hazard a guess.

He did get an appointment, but not until the next day. In the meantime, he continued to ask me what it possibly could be. I finally told him to check the internet.  An internet innocent, he had not heard of WebMD.

After perusing the site for several minutes, he had decided with authority in his voice that he had “thrombophlebitis”. A blood clot. He was crazy with worry all night that it might loosen and travel to his brain or lungs. I listened and made a crack to the effect that with our WebMD medical degree, we could make a lot of money.

Yesterday he went to the doctor. The doctor had an ultrasound done on Husband’s leg.

Diagnosis: blood clot-thrombophlebitis.

Huh.

So, today I have tried to make up for my doubting him by being helpful. He is to elevate the leg and keep hot or cold compresses on it.

To be fair to me, he is not a good patient. He hates having to sit with his leg up. He wants to do all of the spring chores that are piling up. He gets bored reading. He likes to watch movies, but can only do that for so long.

As the nurse here, I am the one telling him to sit down. I am the person to be sure that his leg is up. I am the one who must tell him that the chores don’t have to be done.

In other words, I am the bad guy. And I get cranky about that. I get mad when it feels as though he is not taking this seriously. I get anxious when he is not following the doctor’s instructions.

Florence Nightingale, I am not.

Nurse Ratched-yes.

It’s going to be a long weekend.

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