The bionic woman

My wife and I cooled our heels in the doctor’s waiting room, listening for her name to be called. Ennui closed in like a smothering fog, muffling the sound of the occasional cough. Whose idea was it for us to sit here with all these sick people?

Hoping to stave off the virulent boredom, I randomly flipped through a brochure. Glancing at the images of artificial joints, I thought, “So, this is what we have come to. Also, my wife will soon be bionic. How cool is that?”

It’s a painful fact that my wife and I have arrived at the point in our lives where joint replacement surgery has become a common topic of conversation. This has also brought a couple of new guys into our lives, namely, Art and Ben. Art as in arthritis, and Ben as in Bengay.

Our visit to the orthopedist’s exam room was eerily similar to those of the obstetrician’s exam room all those decades ago. My wife spoke of her discomfort. The doctor commiserated but said that little could be done other than to let time and nature take their course.

The difference is, back when my wife was expecting, the time horizon was just a matter of months. Now, it appears it will be much longer than that before this current situation is resolved. This, despite my solemn assurances to the orthopedist that I would faithfully grease any and all zerks that are on my wife’s new knee.     

I asked the sawbones some tough questions and learned you can steer clear of osteoarthritis by a.) never using your joints; b.) never aging; and c.) choosing the right parents.

The doctor recommended that my wife take some time off from her job to allow her painful knee to rest and recuperate. This prescription came with a major side effect: specifically, major amounts of togetherness.

Back when we were newlyweds, my wife stayed at home as we struggled to make a go of it as dairy farmers. There are always a million things that need to be done on a dairy. On top of that, we somehow managed to produce a pair of kids. Our lives became so busy that our conversations were reduced to grunting at each other when we passed one another in the hallway.

Shortly after our two sons started school, my wife took an off-farm job. It didn’t pay very well, but it came with health insurance. We calculated this might prove beneficial should we suffer a major medical event such as joint replacement surgery.

With my wife back at home full time, our household underwent a sea change. The laundry got folded, and the living room carpet became so clean that we could actually see its original color. Cobwebs were banished, and the dishes were put away. In other words, my wife quickly learned how to get me to do the housework.

One day, I found a pile of bulging garbage bags squatting near the door. “What’s this?” I asked.

“I was going through some of my stuff, and I’m tossing anything that’s old or doesn’t work,” my wife replied.

I made a mental note to avoid sitting still too long lest I find myself encased by a garbage bag and plunked by the door.

My wife was as restless as an overcaffeinated hummingbird one night, so I asked what the matter was. Without warning, she dropped the “B” bomb.

“I should have a baby to take care of,” she said. “I’m home all day and wake up every couple of hours. I may as well be feeding and changing a baby.”

“Hold on just a minute,” I exclaimed, hoping to draw a sharp line in the sand, “We’ve been there and done that. We even have T-shirts that say, ‘I put my kid through college and all I got was this lousy T-shirt!’”

“Liar. We don’t have T-shirts like that.”

“Exactly. And you know why? Because we’re still paying for putting a kid through college. Why don’t you take up a hobby? You mentioned you learned how to macrame in high school. Well, I happen to know where there’s a pile of slightly used plastic baling twine...”

I didn’t quite catch what my wife muttered as she left the room to get a drink of water, but it seemed to involve the words “I’ll macrame you” and “straitjacket.”

I hope my wife gets better soon, and not just because it hurts me to see her in pain.

It’s also because I’m concerned about those new garbage bags she just purchased. They appear to be capable of accommodating something about my size.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at [email protected].