A trip to the emergency room is not supposed to be funny — unless you’re with My Cowboy, and then it’s downright hilarious!
After a couple sleepless nights, a bad day yesterday, and his inability to get up this morning, I made My Cowboy let me take him in to get checked out. He’d been running a fever to boot, so I was getting more worried than usual.
He presented at the ER feverish, achy, and wheezing.
They hooked him up to all the usual tubes and cords, and left the room. While they were gone, he tried to convince me to reenact the scene from “Talledega Nights” where Ricky Bobby’s wife cries, “It’s a tough decision, but pull the plug — I’ve never seen him like this!” — “But ma’am, he’s only sleeping.” So naturally, when they walk back in, I’m laughing hysterically.
The next time we’re left alone, he starts giving me “funeral instructions”: “Burn me with my new cowboy hat. And we might hafta sacrifice a couple o’ the pets, cos I wanna take em with me.” Again, I’m laughing tears when the tech walks back in.
Of course, he’s laying there in the bed all innocent-like, looking as sickly as he can muster.
I’m sure the medical staff is certain that I have zero compassion for my poor man’s plight, since every time they walk in, I’m giggling uncontrollably.
After a battery of tests, they determine that he has pneumonia. The nurse announces that they’ll be giving him some shots, and leaves again. While she’s gone, he inquires: “Why don’t you come hold my butt cheek while she gives me these shots?” Darned if I’m not once again laughing like a loon when the nurse walks back in with two large syringes.
He’s gonna end up getting me admitted to the psych ward one of these days! Maybe that’s his ultimate goal.
The doctor comes in to discuss options. They could possibly hospitalize him for a couple days. He says, “Aha! See? They know I won’t get the proper care at home!” Or they could let him go home if he’ll promise to come back for more breathing treatments and shots over the next couple days. I’m sure they probably discussed amongst themselves how much easier it would be for them to send him home for ME to deal with rather than keep him there!
He agrees to show up for more shots, then when they leave again, he asks: “If I cough into my sleeve, can we go get sumthin to eat? Doc says I don’t look sickly.”
After getting him all set with a handful of paperwork, we’re headed to the door. I said: “You wait here; I’ll go bring the truck around.” He gets in, and I report that we’re going to the pharmacy: “We’ll get your prescription filled, then I’ll take you home and get you into bed, and . . . ” —-“Atta girl! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” —- “So you can REST!” —- “Killjoy! Fun squelcher! Mean, mean woman!”
I tucked him into bed, and then offered the thermometer. He scowls at it and says: “That’s sposed to go in yer pooper!” I asked: “Would you like for me to stick it in yer pooper?”
“All right, then. Under your tongue it goes.”
No fever for the time being. He slept all afternoon . . .
When he woke up around 5:00, he sat down on the couch with a bag of jalapeno Cheese Curls, stating, “They told me if I eat a whole bag o’ these, it’ll help the pneumonia.”
“Oh, did they now?”
“Yep. They said that while you were out gettin’ the truck.”
“I’ll just bet they did.”
Should I have insisted they keep him hospitalized?