The "H" Word

I am about to be bitch-slapped from here to Timbuktu. Remember that last post where I said I was a lazy, pathetic slug? That is ALL about to change. The wife is already giving me lessons on "Floor-washing 101." Hope you had a nice Thanksgiving, by the way. We enjoyed gorging ourselves at various family & friend gatherings. 

The wife and I went to the doctor yesterday--to the specialist who was going to tell us about the Favre-a-roid & offensive line living in the wife's belly. I weaseled my way in, notebook and pen in hand, ready to record information as it was spewed forth. I tried to blend in but it's kind of hard to blend when you are in a teeny exam room. No matter, Dr. Pasture (a name that is understood by the wife, I am sure and NOT because he's going to put her out to pasture, although that is funny when you think about it in a warped way) was not distracted in the least by my presence. He shook my hand, introduced himself, even gave me a business card. He didn't ask stupid questions about who I was, so that won him accolades from me. Dr. Pasture also won big points for being a graduate of our beloved collegiate alma mater & for knowing several people that the wife knows from the field of education. He also won points for his bedside manner and his gentle but direct approach. The wife really liked him and felt quite at ease with him, which is very important when picking a doctor who is going to be looking at your hoo hoo (or, as Oprah would say, your Va-Jay-Jay) and parts. 

Dr. Pasture had our number in more than one way. When speaking to the wife, he addressed her probable obsessive compulsive ways (I almost fell off the chair on that one), her scheduling around work, her interest in fertility. He was very serious when questioning her about if fertility was a concern to her. I think we both probably looked like deer in the headlights. Like, does he think she still might want to shoot out a baby? Big eyes and a big shake of the head "no" alerted him to the lack of maternal instincts brewing within the wife. 

He then incredibly asked about MY interest in fertility. Um...what? He nonchalantly confirmed that we are partners (we both still had that stupid deer in the headlights look, now followed with two nods "yes" and an even bigger stupid look on our faces) and explained that if we wanted, he would work with me to ensure I could have a baby if we wanted. I assured him this was not the case--I wanted to scream out: "I'M 46 FRIGGIN' YEARS OLD! I'M NOT SHOOTING NO BABY OUT OF THESE PARTS AT THIS STAGE OF THE GAME!" but, instead I politely declined fertility help. He reassured us several times of his willingness to work with us on that should we change our minds. 

Then came what I consider to be the not so happy parts of the consultation. I'm not sure it is even remotely appropriate to make fun or talk lightheartedly about what transpired in that doctor's office, but it is a coping skill for me and much cheaper than anti-anxiety medication and/or visits to the psychiatrist and I've already started to tell you lovely readers about the Favre-a-roid so there is no turning back....

.....Out spit the "H" word. 

Like, as in "you need a hysterectomy and there are not any options" kind of "H." 

Dr. Pasture spoke of sizes and shapes, of scary words and terms, of reasons why this and that alternative would not be possible. He could tell we were well versed in the "let's talk about all the alternatives before saying the "H" word" and he seemed understanding but there didn't seem like a lot of options. He was able to explain why each method the wife asked about would not be an option. (Did you know Condaleeza Rice just had a giant fiboid taken care of? Where have I been?) Unfortunately, the wife's uterus is giagantic--as in five month pregnant big--and that doesn't leave a lot of options. Add to that a whole bunch of golfball sized fibroids, you've got yourself a problem. We knew he was going to say the "H" word and we knew that doctors always say the "H" word but we didn't know that the options would be so.....limited. (One option is the ultimate of limited, don't you think?) 

I'll spare you the details. I refuse to put out one shred of negativity in the Universe. I refuse to give fuel to any negative speck of anything. Suffice it to say that the wife will be calling the surgery scheduler on Monday and it will be only a matter of a week or two before the "H" word comes to fruition.... 

So, a Favre-roid-ectomy it is. I'm sending the bill to Brett Favre. I'd send it to the Packer Offensive line, too, but it's not their fault Brett left Green Bay and that they got left behind in there..... ....and so, I am going to be doing the laundry and washing the floor and dusting the house and paying the bills and changing the dog water and cleaning the toilet and monitoring the water softener salt and doing all those zillion things the wife does and I do not do. I'll be so domestic my head will spin. I won't need to work out because I will be getting quite a work out doing the wife's jobs. Trust me, I am all good with this. I will probably just suck at it. I'm all good with that, too. I'll do my absolute best.... and at least I won't have to mow the lawn or wash all three cars by hand on any given afternoon....