My husband had plans for Valentine's Day, this year. Probably for the first time in almost twenty years of marriage, he decided to take me out for dinner.
What he didn't count on was that I wouldn't be able to order more than some hot tea and soup that remained completely untouched.
Or that I'd hiss and shiver every time the car hit a bump--or maybe even just a pebble--in the road.
Or that I'd be walking (without heels, which would have been impossible) as if I were 103 years old.
In the end, our romantic Valentine's Day meal was completed when he dropped me off at the emergency room of the closest hospital; he went to watch basketball at PJ's Pub (my present to him, actually--I didn't want him hanging around an emergency room), and I went to lay on a gurney in the triage unit.
He drank cold beer. I drank radioactive lemonade. (Well...maybe it wasn't radioactive, but ick. It sure tasted like it!) He got pleasantly buzzed. I got a diagnosis of appendicitis and rip-roaring loopy. (Yeh, painkillers.)
He went home to bed. I went off to surgery.
And so went Valentine's Day 2010. I didn't lose my heart, but I lost my appendix.
I spent almost an entire week on the couch, napping and recovering. And now, a little over a week later, I'm back to life. I still have staples in my stomach, but I can walk without wincing and even have an appetite again. (Darn it. I wanted that to go away until I'd lost another fifty or sixty pounds.) I might even start blogging once more.
Oh. Yeah. Like now.
Anyhow, I just wanted to let everyone know where I went. On an adventure.
Incidentally, despite the way it sounds, my Valentine's Day was quite romantic. My hubby didn't complain about me taking naps for five whole days, and didn't even whine about having to cook or do laundry. Now that's a hero...