I know, I have at least one surgery a year, but like I’ve been saying, I’m a genetic freak. Each surgery has removed something bad or fixed something awful in me, so I feel justified. Actually I’m just hooked on that 20 second feeling of being put out, truth be told.
But Marty had shoulder surgery yesterday. (He sustained injuries 39 years ago as he was the starting quarterback in high school, after all.) So he finally , since high school, had his broken collar bone parts fixed. They shaved off the arthritic bone spurs on said collar bone, cleaned up his starting-to-fray rotator cuff, and stitched up a torn labrum. Poor guy.
Since it was suggested he sleep in a recliner, I joined him downstairs on the couch next to him. Well, I missed my bed—I am not a couch sleeper, I’ll tell you, but this blog isn’t about me, I forgot. He’s been remarkably non-babyish which is very unlike a man when it comes to being laid up. He’s more angry that he won’t be able to golf during Lawyerboy’s bachelor party in the sunshine. Wait, I’m giving him too much credit, he’s on hydrocodone, no wonder he’s being so amiable.
Except he has these annoying hiccups from the anesthesia, now I know where Sciencegirl gets that from. I just get the barfs from it.
(This pic may have been a drug-induced approval)