I recently had a hysterectomy, and because insurance companies hate joy, rest and women, I was discharged the same day and placed into the very capable (read: panicked) hands of my husband.
The 15-minute drive home felt like three hours. We somehow hit every pothole in the state.
I screamed to warn him about each one; he added dramatic braking like we were auditioning for Fast & Furious and still managed to hit them. By the time we got home, my core was in open rebellion.
Then he left me on my own to head to the pharmacy to grab my prescriptions. He took the scenic route like he was on a Sunday drive. I watched his location like a hawk, cursing under my breath, until he finally walked in with zero urgency. I snatched my pain meds from his hands. I would’ve tackled him if my body wasn’t held together by surgical glue.
Next was the journey to the bedroom. Roughly 10 miles. (Fine. Eight steps.) Each one felt like Everest.
Once I was finally settled, we realized three of my four incisions had popped open. Not “a little oops.” These were OPEN. Gaping. Waving hello.
My husband, fighting nausea, said, “Uh… that doesn’t look right.”
Sir. I know.
The incisions were in places I couldn’t see so I asked him to take photos. I nearly passed out when I saw what looked like the Grand Canyon on my abdomen.
I called the on-call nurse, who asked me to upload the photos to my chart. Easy! Except I was heavily medicated, so logging in felt like launching the space shuttle. After 47 years, the photos sent.
She called back immediately. “Ummm… this is above my pay grade. I’ve called the doctor.”
Comforting.
The instructions came back: Close the wounds with butterfly bandages and come in the morning.
Great. We had none.
So at 8:45 p.m., my husband sprinted to Walgreens before it closed. They had no boxes of butterfly bandages. They did have a first aid kit with four butterfly bandages for $50. We had $55 left in our account, but he wasn’t coming home empty-handed to his not-nearly-medicated-enough wife, so he opened his wallet without a second thought. I’m pretty sure he would’ve mortgaged the house for those bandages if needed.
So there we were: two adults, four overpriced butterfly bandages, three open wounds, zero medical training.
We tag-teamed the incisions. He almost puked until I reminded him he’d be cleaning it up.
Day 1 of recovery ended with my husband traumatized, my body held together by a prayer—and both of us learning exactly what “in sickness and in health” means.
—Pamela Chandler
Pamela Chandler writes the Gem City Family column for the Dayton Daily News and created the family blog The Chandler Crew. Her writing blends humor and heart as she shares stories about motherhood, marriage, cancer, homeschooling and the beautifully chaotic moments in between. Known for finding the funny in hard things, she writes candidly about resilience, parenting and what survives when life doesn’t go as planned. When she’s not on deadline, she’s usually chasing a story—or her kid—around Dayton.