While recently clipping coupons, I was interrupted by a frantic phone call from someone purporting to be from our town's hospital. She claimed that my husband Fred had fallen from the roof of a building an hour earlier and she wanted to know my blood group. "May I ask why?" I responded, not wanting to know why Fred fell (he's a house painter and has suffered several mishaps since developing vertigo in 2006), but trying to fathom why I should divulge such private information to a stranger.
"Your spouse is hemorrhaging and we're low on supplies of his blood type." "And what blood type might that be?" I asked. "Do you not know your own blood group?" she replied brusquely. "Yes, of course," I explained, "but I haven't the foggiest idea who you are and if you could verify my husband's blood type, I'd be a good bit further down the road marked 'trust.'"
Her answer was snappy and not good publicity for the nursing staff at Fairfield General: "I am RN Cindy Edgar and your husband, Fred Morris, is bleeding to death." "All right," I said, laying down my coupons (Who wants to save 79 cents on Circus Peanuts anyway?), "No need to get huffy. I'm on my way."
That was one trying Tuesday. Turns out the person who ultimately gave blood to Fred (I hate needles) holds only an associate's degree from community college (and that in aerospace culinary arts). "Tell me a little bit more about this donor before I sign the forms," I prodded Nurse Edgar (no more attractive in person than on the phone). "The donor has Pk blood," she growled.
"Yes, but from what sort of family? Brothers or sisters? Anyone with a bachelor's?" (Fred and I each attained this degree, though he's put his to what I consider poor use.) More growling: "He's a bachelor with Pk blood."
Six hours later, I learned the outlandish rental cost of a hospital bed. "Christ Almighty," I said, "it'd be cheaper to rent a car." "Not a car with an elevated headrest," came the reply. Seems these days that everyone in the service industry (at least here in Fairfield) has watched far too much Letterman.
Three days later, settled in our living room, Fred asked for his book of Acrostics. "Haven't you done enough for one week?" I shot back. He looked at me blankly. "You've plunged from a roof, may have contracted an infectious disease from someone who aspires to prepare airline food, and have managed to entirely block the sole working television in this section of our home's downstairs." "Can't you watch the TV in the kitchen?" he asked. "Sure, Fred, but it's not a flat-screen. And I may need your Acrostics book to prop up the antenna."
You gals who married drunks or whose husbands have been unemployed for long stretches of time know there's nothing more exasperating than having El Viejo around the house. Particularly when he's flat on his back and can't figure out how to operate the remote control for his own mattress.
We got into it last Thursday. "Why are you mopping my forehead," Fred wanted to know. "I'm not," I told him, "I'm dusting." Again, the blank look. "I'm treating you like a very expensive piece of furniture, which is what you've become." He smiled weakly, "You're caring for me." "No, I'm wiping the dust off your skull."
Now he wants a turtle. "You know what, Fred, the doctors say you'll be up and about in eight months. Then who's going to care for the turtle?" That stumped him for a while. Then he blurted: "It's not like I'm asking you to give blood."
"Fine," I said, thwacking the Yellow Pages on his chest, "get an estimate." "An estimate for a turtle?" "Yes, Fred, it's like buying anything else: a set of tires, a dishwasher. You call around." "But what do I ask for?" (I could already see the effects of his downwardly mobile blood transfusion.) "A turtle. You ask for a turtle." "But what size? What kind? How will I compare?" "You're gonna let your fingers do the walking, because they're the only part of you that can walk. You're gonna find the cheapest turtle in Fairfield and I'll pick it up on my way home from bridge."
I swear to God I was not cut out for this. If he rings that little bell one more time.... I told him, "Save up your requests: Jello, crackers, turtle. That's three things. I don't need to hear the bell on three separate occasions." "Right," he said, "but you crumbled crackers in my Jello." "Now you know why, Fred; be glad it wasn't a turtle." He complained he felt like Joan Crawford in "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?" "Bette Davis served her a rat," I informed him, "not a turtle."
Today Marge called me away from the bridge table telling me you-know-who was on the line. "The home healthcare aide's not here and I've spilled a bowl of soup in my lap," he gasped. "May I know what kind of soup?" I asked patiently. "What does it matter?" came his belligerent reply. "Indulge me," I said tightly. "Gazpacho," he answered. "Fred, that really doesn't help. Warm gazpacho or cold?" There was no response. "I'd like to know if you scalded yourself or if you're freezing to death." "Gazpacho is always served cold," he said tersely. And then came the moment that almost made the first nine days of my eight-month prison sentence worthwhile: I was able to tell my husband that, contrary to erroneous opinion, gazpacho can be served either hot or cold. I think even the airlines know that.
