Last night we were discussing economics because I am obsessed with the Great Depression now. There was some discussion regarding the fact that all the big economists had sons who were now economists. Except Adam Smith. I don’t even know about Adam Smith. And that would be great, great grandchildren anyway. We were talking Friedman.
Then I brought up the splinter in my hand. I was trying to dig it out with a rusty pin needle because why use the $4,000 in medical supplies my husband has in the bathroom when you can take out a sewing kit from the ’70s and have at it. It was then that my husband offered to help.
This, my friends, is a bit of a Catch-22. The man has had secret fantasies of being a doctor that have remained well-hidden. These fantasies would have probably been realized along with his PhD and J.D. if he could get over that pesky fear of blood, bodily fluids, disease and the smell of well, anything. His father joked at the husband’s law school graduation that all that was left was med school. I turned to my husband and told him I would LEAVE him if he ever considered one more second of education. He retaliated by getting a teaching job two days a week. Bastard.
But back to surgery. My husband is a bit between when it comes to empathy and solution-oriented medical attention. Add the recent issue regarding the fact that he is OLD and can’t see anymore, I was leery, to say the least. But he wanted to help and I really should have gotten this piece of glass out of my thumb two days ago because now it is permanently embedded in my thumb bone.
He sat down beside me on the couch and looked at my pin. He was off to find a sterilized stick pin he had purchased for $38 and his handy-dandy magnifying glass with light. Then he grabbed my hand. And pricked my thumb. Twice. Not even remotely near my splinter. I screeched.
D: SORRY!!! The pin wasn’t in my line of sight under the magnifying glass yet.
K: So you decided to do the stab-to-find method?
We started laughing so hard we were crying. He started to poke me again. With tears in his eyes. Because tears in your eyes help a blind man see even BETTER.
In case you are wondering, it went downhill from there. I know. How is that possible? I still have the glass shard in my thumb but now I have a 1/4″ incision as well. We couldn’t find the glass.
We probably should have just given the tweezers to The Boy and had him take it out.