When the doctor is the patient

For three years of marriage I had wondered when this would happen, and finally, it did.

My husband was stricken.

Sure, he has had a cold or two but he never gets so sick he can't take care of himself. But two and a half weeks ago he started having problems with his back, a condition inherited from his father. For two weeks he continued to go to work every day, saying "oh I'll come home early" (he came home early twice) and "I'll be ok". He worked two 24 hour shifts during that time, and every day at the hospital is busy on his feet. "I'm fine", was the mantra of the day. As if someone half bent over with icicles shooting out of his back is actually fine.

Friday he came home after an especially busy day, a little bit worse for wear. At first I thought he was just attempting the famous Michael Jackson "Moonwalk" manuever, turns out he was simply walking. Saturday morning he woke up and had regressed to a more apelike de-evolution, completely hunched over and barely able to move. By Sunday he lay prostrate on the floor, babbling and drooling as if possessed by the soul of a gomer. Things were not looking good.

To his credit, he isn't a very demanding patient. Sure, he has an electric taser that he shoots at me if I am late bringing him his medicine, and lets not forget the little bell that he just WONT STOP RINGING. Seriously though, get him set up in his computer chair with a hot water bottle, a bottle of water and all his medicine and he is set for a few hours. He is about the only person I know with muscle spasms that laughs when it happens. Since he is a doctor, the sadomasochism makes sense.

As of today, he seems to be markedly better, and plans on making a go of attempting to work tomorrow. It is really too bad, because I will miss the opportunity to point and laugh everytime he takes a dive from a back spasm. At least he'll have his fellow physicians for that.