Big Baby

Upon hearing that I had scheduled the procedure to repair my torn right rotator cuff, my wife said, “Are you going to be a big baby about this?” She proceeded to tell me that I was a wimp when it came to pain, no match for any woman. “Try pushing a baby out of your vagina and then talk to me about pain.” Childbirth, the ultimate trump card in the occasional war between the sexes. I tried mounting an argument in defense of my gender, but compared to a human coming down and out the birth canal, I didn’t have much to work with. A vasectomy hurts, to be sure, with alarming swelling of the testicles, but it can’t compare to 27 hours of labor.

I suggested we discuss the practical aspects of my post-operative recovery, what I would and would not be able to do with my arm immobilized by a sling. My wife rolled her eyes and reminded me that rotator cuff surgery is commonplace, routine, outpatient for crying-out-loud, an ice pack and an Rx for Vicodin, no big deal. Why did I insist on treating this run-of-the-mill procedure like open-heart surgery? O-u-t-p-a-t-i-e-n-t, she repeated, like going through the drive-in. For the first few days it was expected that I might need help buttoning my pajamas, tying my shoes or washing my hair, but if I anticipated her waiting on me hand and foot, well, I had better think again. “You make it seem like I’m having a planter’s wart removed,” I said. Poor baby. Did I have any idea how much childbirth hurt, what it did to a woman’s body, the force and pressure exerted on the pelvis, the stretching of skin and movement of bone? Even with an epidural, the pain could only be described as other worldly. But how could I know, a mere man? Unless I could imagine expelling a cantaloupe from my anus.

This thought concerning that lower region did occur to me: I’m on the can, post bowel movement, a natural right-hander with an incapacitated right arm…definitely a practical consideration of the first order. Brushing teeth or buttering toast with the left hand is one thing, doing a thorough job down there with one’s off hand another. For some reason a vision of Charles Darwin crossed my mind, evolution and adaptation, the triumph of the opposable thumb. Being forced to use my left hand all the time, I would improve the coordination and dexterity of that hand and stimulate my brain to boot, thus scoring a victory over my temporary disability. Evolution on a wee scale. My wife hooted at this: “Only you would make that observation. You’ve never wiped your ass with your left hand?”

No, never. Is this so odd? Does it make me some sort of freak?

Seeing that I was distressed at the thought of being away from kickboxing and weightlifting and running for at least three months, my wife kissed me on the forehead and assured me that she would be there for me, every step of the way, and, if it came to it, she would even clean my behind. That’s a measure of true and enduring love.

But of course I’m still the biggest baby around.