Morphine, Not Muffin

The Mrs has been in the recovery room for over an hour. She sounds a bit high still, chirpy and loud. Very loud, as she is being wheeled back into her bedroom. I can hear her well before her bed appears at the doorway, her operation must have gone very well. She giggles loudly, “Thank you so much for pushing me around in my bed.” The male nurse wishes her a quick recovery as he puts the brakes of her bed’s castor wheels on. The female nurse tells her to press the red button if she requires any assistance. “If you feel pain, please let us know, we will top up the morphine.” With a happy voice, The Mrs chirped, “No muffin for me, I’m not hungry.” The Mrs predictably declines the offer of food. After all, she just had her left hip replaced. Hip replacement surgery used to mean the surgeon will make a long incision on the side of the hip, cut through muscles, ligaments and tendons to get to the hip joint. A procedure that would take well over two hours, with the surgeon and his staff more butcher and carpenter-like than medical experts. Today, it involves a much shorter incision on the front of the thigh, thereby avoiding any damage to muscles and tendons, only the damaged arthritic bone and cartilage are removed from the hip joint. A procedure that takes approximately forty minutes. More importantly, full recovery can be as short as three months. The Mrs now has a brand new ceramic socket which houses a brand new ceramic femoral ball. The ball is attached to a titanium stem which is planted into the bone marrow of her femur. “Can I have my old bone back please?” The Mrs asks her doctor. “Why would you want to keep a bone that gave you nothing but severe pain?” The Mrs did not offer a reply but I think she must have been thinking of the son’s puppy, Murray.

Today is the third day since The Mrs was discharged from the hospital. A nurse told her she had to be able to discharge to be discharged. So, she was eager to demonstrate to the nursing staff that she could discharge her wastes naturally, and without difficulty. That meant an extraordinary campaign to drink water incessantly and her affinity for bananas became almost an addiction. It worked, she stayed for only three nights under the care of the nurses. “Phew, am I glad to leave this place!” she exclaimed once she had manoeuvred gingerly into our car. “There was a resident ghost in my room. On the first night, just before daybreak, an unfamiliar pre-1940’s pop song blared out from the built-in speaker of my hand-held remote.” The remote controls only the tv in the room apart from the red button which controls the attention of the nurses. The tv was off, there is no logic for music to be playing when an electronic gadget is switched off. There is no logic for the music to immediately stop blaring when she pressed on the tv’s on-off switch either. A mischievous ghost from the early 20th century who did not learn Physics?

“I am sorry you will have to be my slave whilst I recuperate.” The Mrs shot me a friendly warning on the way home from the hospital. “My doctor said I should have lots of rest, no house-work, no cooking, and definitely, no washing dishes.You will have to look after the garden and the pond too, and don’t forget the chooks and the koi”, she declared, ignoring or forgetting the fact that I was usually the one to look after the yard and pet chores. I was sorely tempted to ask her if being her slave would also include sexual duties. I would be most happy to be her sex slave. Urghhling.

The truth however has to be told. The Mrs’ very supportive sister has been the one to help with all the chores. Luckily for me, my stint as a modern-day slave has been smooth-sailing. The only duty I have been allotted is strictly in the sexual department. So far, there has been no demand from The Mrs.

A modern-day slave for all chores bar one

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.