The Outlaws have been having some medical troubles the last couple weeks.
Mother Outlaw had to have surgery for kidney stones.
Before she could even get home from the hospital, Father Outlaw had to be admitted for chest pains and have his pacemaker monitored overnight. My Cowboy’s sister, Pam, took him and stayed with him, while her son stayed with Mother Outlaw at home.
They all finally got home and settled back in late Saturday evening.
But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree . . .
My Cowboy had a doctor’s appointment Monday morning.
He presented at the doctor’s office with what the doctor referred to as “some pretty impressive dyspnea” (shortness of breath) and chest pains, so the doctor promptly stopped his examination, scribbled some notes, handed me a piece of paper, and told me to take him straight to the hospital for admission, while he called the cardiologist.
We heard the doctor begin his conversation with the cardiologist: “Hi, Doc. I believe you have a patient . . . ” and then couldn’t hear any more as he shut the door.
And My Cowboy, in between bouts of gasping for air, and in spite of his pain, began a made-up conversation he figured they’d be having.
“You mean he’s not dead yet? Hell, I figured he’d have kicked the bucket by now. We got his kidney doctor to stop giving him the medicine he needs. I told him I didn’t want to see him for another 6 months. Now it’s your turn. You have to help us!”
So I’m giggling like crazy when the doctor steps back in, and he says: “This is not funny,” then grins at me and joins right in. He looks at My Cowboy and says “Can’t you get your boots on any faster than that? I can’t have you collapsing right here in my office. How would it look, having the fire truck and the ambulance out there in the parking lot? I have a reputation to protect!” Which only made me laugh harder.
So he looks at me and says again: “Stop laughing!” Which I cannot do . . . I take the pile of papers and go get the truck.
We get to the hospital and get him all checked in, and as we’re waiting for them to take him to his room, a very attractive lady walked by. My Cowboy says: “I’m suddenly feeling much better!” So again, just as the transport person arrives, I’m giggling. As if I’m just so happy that My Cowboy is so sick!
We recently just learned that our stepmother’s mother is in the hospital after breaking her hip. After getting My Cowboy settled in his room, I texted my sister to tell her where we were. She texts back: “Is he rooming with Ruth?”
Me: “No. But he said he’d be willing to move up there if it would make it easier for our stepmother to visit.”
Katy: “What’s wrong with him?”
Me: “I don’t know, but he asked them to check him for food poisoning — from lasagna.” (Which is what she had fixed us for supper the night before.)
Katy: “I told him about the cheese, but he ate it anyway. Do I need to send Darin down there to give him an enema?”
I think I’ve told you before that none of us takes much of anything too seriously. Definite case in point . . .
The hospital is over an hour away, so I had to leave My Cowboy overnight, and come home and do chores. So I just stayed home for the night, and went back down to the hospital this morning after chores were done. Someone has to take care of the farm, no matter what.
The doctor hadn’t been in yet. My Cowboy’s color was much improved, and I asked him how he was feeling. He admitted to still being very dizzy, weak, and lightheaded.
I said: “Well, you’re gonna have to get over that if you want them to let you go home.”
Him: “Did you see my nurse?”
Me: “Yep.” (She was a very cute young thing.)
Him: “She offered to help me take a shower. Now why would I want to go home?”
So dang it, I’m once again laughing hysterically when the lady from the business office walks in.
She’s filling out paperwork, and I’m listed as his emergency contact, and that I live with him. She asks me, and I don’t know why: “You’re not pregnant or disabled, are you?”
Before I could even shake my head, My Cowboy pipes up: “If she was one, she’d BE the other!”
So now we’re all laughing, as his nurse walks in and says: “I’m glad to see you’ve kept your sense of humor through all this.” Never a problem with My Cowboy . . .
They release him to go home, so as he’s getting ready to leave, I said: “You can tear off all those sticky things from the heart monitor now.”
He said: “I’m waiting to do that in the privacy of my own home, so no one hears me screaming.”
Just as we’re walking through the door of the shack, Father Outlaw calls to check on his son. I said: “You’re not calling to tell me Pam is in the hospital, are you?”