By Patrick Payette
Columnist

The other day I did some quick calculations. I am 47 years old. I’ve been married for almost 19 years. Number of surgeries endured during my first 28 years of life while single: 0. Number of surgeries endured during 19 years of marriage: 7. That computes into one surgery every 2.7 years since my wife and I said, “I do.” Granted, a couple were day surgeries, which means you come in, become unconscious, get cut open, regain consciousness, and are sent home. What should I read into these calculations since as they say, numbers never lie? Coincidence? I wonder.

Some of my wife’s fondest marital memories include me coming out of anesthesia, drooling, eyelids fluttering, and grasping for invisible flying objects. It was reported to me that I left my first day surgery on crutches, through a crowded waiting room, singing “You Can’t Keep a Good Man Down.” A little live entertainment for a $15 co-payment.

The last surgery I enjoyed, I ended up spending a couple of nights in a Boston hospital. I was supposed to be there a night or two longer, but you know how men are, “Come on doc, yank out that catheter and get me outta here.” My wife shows up for a visit expecting me to stay one more night, but I’m up on the edge of the bed, dressed, bag packed, pulling out my IVs.

This particular day it was snowing hard and the normal hour-and-a-half trip from Boston took four hours. My wife’s stress was evident – no doubt a result of the weather, the traffic, and probably me in the backseat constantly wondering where we were in general, and where I was specifically. I told her I was feeling well enough to drive if she needed a break. Most of the pain medication had worn off, and driving in the snow looked like lots of fun with cars going sideways, and the brake lights were so pretty. I remained in the backseat.

Another surgery on my elbow was so minor my wife got to come in and watch. She and the doc were having a stimulating conversation when I began to notice the local anesthetic was beginning to wear off. Because I was raised with good manners, it would have been rude for me to interrupt their conversation, so I said nothing, and endured the feel of the scalpel slicing through whatever it was it was slicing through. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer and I grabbed my wife’s leg under the table.

“Something wrong Pat?” she asked.

My wife will tell you I am a terrible patient, and I believe most wives would consider their husbands terrible patients. Just because men seldom listen to doctor’s orders or take the bandages off to make sure nothing is falling out of the incision, or to show the incision to anyone who is willing to look at it, does not make them bad patients.

Men like to test their endurance and pain threshold, and women suffer the consequences. Usually they have to come running when a barely audible “Please help me” escapes the man’s lips as he lies on the living room floor after trying to start the video game system.

“The next time you want to play ‘Madden Football’ on the PlayStation, call me and I will set it up. You’re in no condition to get up and do it yourself,” she told me. No kidding.

I just thought it would test my endurance if I could get up, push a button, change a video game and get back to my seat. Hey, I made it halfway. That’s better than the day before when she had to rescue me when I got stuck in an awkward position in the collapsible leg rest on my La-Z-Boy.

– Patrick Payette can be reached at patdunbarton@peoplepc.com, if he can find his computer.

The Single Cynic will alternate weeks with the Married Cynic.