Last week, my husband needed a colonoscopy. For those of you who don't know what this procedure entails, imagine drinking a gallon of laxative, spending an entire night running back and forth from the chair to the toilet, fasting for nearly a full day, and then having someone shove a camera up your bum while filling you with gas to expand your lower colon. It ain't quite comfy, and most people usually go home to rest post-procedure in order to fully recover from both the anesthesia and the pole up the pooper. Doctor's orders (once you get yelled at for all the things you have been eating that you shouldn't eat anymore) include refueling your body's system with gentle foods: pancakes, mashed potatoes, a sandwich maybe.
Of course, my husband does not consider himself to be most people. And why would he? As the nurse told me while he was in recovery, "The intelligent ones are the worst. They reason themselves into everything they shouldn't have." My beloved came out of anesthesia craving crabcakes.
"Where can we eat around here?" He first asked, as though we don't actually live within three miles of the hospital. And then he wanted to know, "Where can I get the best crabcakes?"
I thought I had him convinced that a pancake house would be a fair compromise considering the fact that we had been advised to go straight home where all the flatulence in the world could be released in relative privacy, and he would also, should he stick to a bland diet on the first day post-poop shoot exam, avoid abdominal pains. At the pancake house, he fidgeted and looked at me with sad eyes. For a moment, I thought he was about to spout some kind of deep and sincere reflection about how thankful he was that I was there, that he was glad the exam went well, that he loved me enough to cooperate with doctor's orders for life... something. Instead, he made it clear that he was in no way happy about the late breakfast idea, he promised he would be held accountable for any abdominal pain he might receive, and could I please map a route to the best crabcakes in town.
And so I drove us. Not only did he order his crabcake but fried calamari as well. At least I talked him out of the beer he wanted. I was agitated to say the least.
Sitting across from him as he thanked me for caving to his stubbornness, I told him I no longer wished to hear that his youngest daughter and I were bullheaded for our wish (and ability, I might add) to complete tasks completely independently of his help. I said that the next time he started feeding me that line, I would call him Crabcake to drive the point home.
I have gotten to call him that at least twice this weekend... heh.