I seem to have usurped all the attention and sympathy over the past few months by always being the one driven to medical procedures and other torture sessions some hospital staff are so brilliant at doling out; Hubby is the one watching and trying to hide his worry while I’m lying on the gurney or hospital bed. Today he was on the examining table–this time in  the doctor’s office rather than an OR in a hospital because scheduling was faster and the procedure far less expensive–having the doctor and his assistant prep him for a surgical procedure he’s been putting off for a long time.

I was the one sitting in the chair fixing my eyes on his face rather than the scapel in the doctor’s hands. I watched his eyes get bigger and bigger (I suspect he was a teeny bit worried that the local anesthetic might not hold long enough or be strong enough) and hear the small gasp when the syringe with the solution sank into the palm of his hand.

For the past several months, he’s been putting up with a “trigger finger” which, just as it sounds, means his finger sometimes draws up into a trigger motion as if he’s about to shoot a gun. It’s painful, and it didn’t go back easily into the normal position. In the beginning it happened once in awhile, then more often, and was especially annoying as it woke him up at night. He went through the same thing with another finger about a year ago and realized the only answer was the surgery, but driving me to the hospital–sometimes daily–to keep appointments and wait for me (often in the room watching as often as allowed) meant that he had to put off his procedure until we were at the point where I could count on being well enough to be able to drive him home and watch out for him–instead of the other way around.

Not surprisingly, I learned that, in spite of all the terrible things I’ve gone through since February, it’s harder being the one sitting in the chair watching and not being able to do anything to help. At least I grunt when something hurts me, okay sometimes I groan and once in awhile tears trail from the corners of my eyes, but Hubby doesn’t. So even when he says he’s fine, I can never be sure if he’s just being stoic for me.

Now we’re back home, and the double dose of anesthetic seems to be holding on (the doc had to administer a stronger potion than used for most) and he’s content to lie back in his easy chair watching television. I’m feeling as close to normal as I remember it to be, and hoping I’ll be up to whatever nursing or soothing I may be called on to administer in the days to come. I hope I’m up to it. I know I can change bandages and carry water and pain pills. Maybe I’ll need a little time adjusting to being the watcher instead of the afflicted.