Reasons I love my husband...
Now that the horror of the week is behind us, I am starting to remember some amusing interludes that happened whilst in the surreal zone that is The Hospital. The funniest one involves my beloved R, who, to be frank, looks like a terrorist at the best of times. Dark skin, hairy, the slightly dazed stare of the Neanderthal about him, I prefer to think of him as a freedom fighter.
When R is stressed, the first thing he does is stop shaving. Within hours, he has grown a heavy misshapen beard, peppered with random grey blotches. The hair literally grows all the way up to his eyeballs so that only his dark eyes pop out. The hair on his head is currently overgrown and, on the day of the incident, R had forgotten to brush it. Half his hair was running in one direction, the other half fleeing the opposite way. It was as if his head had declared Jihad on itself. Clothing wise, R was decked out in an old tracksuit that I’d picked up in a frenzy at a sale. Something yellow and sticky clung to it. I suspect it wasn’t custard.
R and I were fussing over the bub in her cot when I spotted our paediatrician in the distance. A refined and well groomed man, he had come to see another patient. Realising what a bonus this was, I suggested that R call him over to have a look at little O – her surgeon hadn’t seen her since the operation, and the thought of nailing the doctor for some free advice appealed to me. He charges us $200 for fifteen minutes, I felt we deserved some sort of bonus.
I watched as R dutifully approached Dr Prim. Dr P took a step back. I saw the abject fear on his face. R lunged towards him – Doctor, it’s me – he said. The doctor reached for the Emergeny Call button. R, desperate to clear things up, moved closer to the Doctor, his voice hitting a slightly higher, hysterical note. I’m O’s father, he pleaded. Dr Prim took a step backwards and surveyed his exit options. Who’s O? he said, buying himself some time as his hands drew closer to the emergency button. I realised I would have to step in. I rushed towards the two men. On seeing me, the relief on Dr Prim’s face was palpable. I explained that R wasn’t an escapee from the psych ward. He was, in fact, the same man Dr Prim had met a few months ago. Only then he was wearing a suit. And his facial features were visible. And there wasn’t anything crusty and yellow on his pants. By that point Dr Prim was willing to do anything just to make the terror stop. He did a thorough examination of little O. And then he ran.
Far far away.
We have an appointment with him next week. I’ve asked R to shave for it.
When R is stressed, the first thing he does is stop shaving. Within hours, he has grown a heavy misshapen beard, peppered with random grey blotches. The hair literally grows all the way up to his eyeballs so that only his dark eyes pop out. The hair on his head is currently overgrown and, on the day of the incident, R had forgotten to brush it. Half his hair was running in one direction, the other half fleeing the opposite way. It was as if his head had declared Jihad on itself. Clothing wise, R was decked out in an old tracksuit that I’d picked up in a frenzy at a sale. Something yellow and sticky clung to it. I suspect it wasn’t custard.
R and I were fussing over the bub in her cot when I spotted our paediatrician in the distance. A refined and well groomed man, he had come to see another patient. Realising what a bonus this was, I suggested that R call him over to have a look at little O – her surgeon hadn’t seen her since the operation, and the thought of nailing the doctor for some free advice appealed to me. He charges us $200 for fifteen minutes, I felt we deserved some sort of bonus.
I watched as R dutifully approached Dr Prim. Dr P took a step back. I saw the abject fear on his face. R lunged towards him – Doctor, it’s me – he said. The doctor reached for the Emergeny Call button. R, desperate to clear things up, moved closer to the Doctor, his voice hitting a slightly higher, hysterical note. I’m O’s father, he pleaded. Dr Prim took a step backwards and surveyed his exit options. Who’s O? he said, buying himself some time as his hands drew closer to the emergency button. I realised I would have to step in. I rushed towards the two men. On seeing me, the relief on Dr Prim’s face was palpable. I explained that R wasn’t an escapee from the psych ward. He was, in fact, the same man Dr Prim had met a few months ago. Only then he was wearing a suit. And his facial features were visible. And there wasn’t anything crusty and yellow on his pants. By that point Dr Prim was willing to do anything just to make the terror stop. He did a thorough examination of little O. And then he ran.
Far far away.
We have an appointment with him next week. I’ve asked R to shave for it.
posted by Yidchick at 2:24 pm
1 Comments:
So funny. At least you recognise that unshaved, he has a sort of terrorist vibe going. I didn't recognize this look in my own husband until looking at old photos with my kids a couple of months ago. My daughter said, "Sheesh, Dad looks a little scary...sort of like a terrorist." It was his passport photo.
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