You are supposed to have a yearly physical in the Army, but Dale has determined that “yearly” is a subjective term and has a physical every five years instead. He returned from Iraq a year ago last September with some lung and stomach issues. Thankfully, the breathing problems have dissipated as he is no longer subject to burn pit toxins on a daily basis. However, his stomach is just not right.
He went in for his physical and was assigned to a highly motivated doctor. The man is “fired up” at all times, works hard at his job, and is determined to find the cause. He has subjected Dale to a gamut of tests. These tests usually take place at the clinic in the Pentagon and I am not involved.
However, one test was to be done at Fort Belvoir. It involved anesthesia and required my presence. Dale has never asked me to be present at any medical appointment in our twenty four years together. He even once had out patient surgery and all I did was drop him off at the curb of the hospital and pick him up at the curb of the hospital.
You’d think that one request in twenty four years would be responded to with, “Of course, Honey, I’ll be there for you. Don’t worry about a thing.” Instead, I replied, “Are you sure I have to sit there? Can’t I just drop you off and come back?”
I was, of course, thinking about the coordination involved in getting four kids to school without my assistance. I was not thinking that for once, my husband actually needed me to make him the top priority. It’s jarring, I tell you. Thankfully, I am blessed with helpful friends and three of them covered my duties for the day.
So, I found myself sitting next to my husband in a hospital gown. He went off to his test and I read the paper in a dazed state for we had gotten up at O dark thirty.
Suddenly, his doctor came bounding into the waiting room to introduce himself. The guy is highly motivated at all times of the day. I have a friend like him. Whenever I am around him, he’s so fired up, it rubs off on me. I become highly motivated to do something (I’m not sure what, but something).
I then went in to sit on the chair in the recovery room next to Dale’s bed. I felt so very odd. I finally said to Dale, “This is very weird. We are in the wrong places.” I’m usually the one in the hospital bed (dehydration, concussion, cesarean, pneumonia, etc), not him. Dale replied, “At least you know what the waiting room looks like now.”
On our way out, we passed through the pharmacy and listened to the computer generated voice which calls out the ticket numbers, “B463 to window number 2.” It’s the same computer generated voice at every military hospital around the world. For me, it will always be the sound of an endless wait. We hurried past, looking in empathy on those in the room and grateful not to be sitting in their chairs.