I’m the Meanest Husband in the World

Dan wouldn't let me go on holiday by myself.

A post shared by G (@jamalt) on

We’ve waited months for this holiday; when we booked our flights home to Australia from Canada last year on points it was a return booking.   Not wanting to waste the return flights we rescheduled them to Canadian spring and booked dinner with friends and a trip back to Arizona to hike into Antelope and Grand Canyons.

Dan fell off his bicycle on Wednesday while cycling to work and fractured his patella.  There were multiple fracture lines but the fracture fragments weren’t displaced.  He didn’t even need orthopaedic surgery.  Just an extension splint for 6 weeks.  I was reporting in ultrasound the morning Daniel went to the ED, his knees and wrists purple with abrasions from having skidded along the wet road.  Rob looked at Dan’s radiographs, from the reporting station across from mine.  When Rob suggested that Dan wouldn’t need surgery I was upbeat; he’d make it on the plane and our holiday would go ahead.  Maybe we’d have to cancel the hike through Algonquin on Tuesday, but we’d still be able to fly, right?

“You’re surprisingly calm about this,” Rob remarked, with a little skepticism.  When his wife injured her knee on a ski holiday it changed their plans significantly.  I was naive.  I was also distracted as my next patient for US-guided FNA had arrived.  “What’s there to worry about?  We’ll just hire some crutches or something!”

It’s been 72 hours.  Dan has lived on our couch for 72 hours, that and the futon I carried downstairs and reassembled.  Dan had wanted to cancel the entire trip 48 hours ago but I was so disappointed that he put on a brave face and grit his teeth and said he’d decide on Saturday.  My suggestion that I go on holiday by myself was not received warmly.

When Dan hobbled into the airport terminal on crutches tonight, the red Richard Splint over bright yellow tracksuit pants, his blue Superman T-shirt completed his Primary Colours Ensemble, ground crew approached like platelets to endothelial damage.  Virchow eat your heart out.  Somebody fetched a wheelchair (we’d booked one).  A smartly dressed woman descended and immediately requested a Doctor’s Letter stating that he was fit to fly.  I’d made Dan call every airline for every leg of our journey to confirm that he’d be allowed on board and that his leg could remain in full knee extension.  Papers sorted it was all smiles and concern and helpfulness.

I’m the meanest husband in the world.  Marry a doctor and, if you are breathing unassisted with a pulse, you are good to fly.

 

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