I've had plenty of experience being the patient's patient husband: Quietly sitting beside the star attraction as she is repeatedly asked her name and birth date (to confirm the information on her wristband) and credit card info (to confirm that everybody's going to get paid).
Beloved has had --- ummmm --- several surgeries: three C-section deliveries (BuckEye, ActorBoy, and KayJay), a double mastectomy with subsequent breast reconstruction and clean-up, hernia repairs, and the absolute removal of all personal privacy issues. [I'm reminded of a hospital visit I made several years ago to the grandmother of a youth group member. She looked me in the eye and solemnly declared, "In 57 years of marriage, I never got undressed in front of my husband; but around here, people come in and take a look at anything they want to see."]
As I was saying, Beloved has had more than her share of surgeries and I've spent several hours of my life sitting nearby while she was being prepped for those surgeries. But even with all this experience under my belt, there are still new things to learn. For example, in conjunction with Beloved's knee surgery today, during the requisite 87 attempts to start an I.V., we were told that Beloved has "valvey veins." In fact, her veins are positively valvelicious in a valvtastic array of valvosity.
Immediately after the surgery, Dr. Golfpro took me into a broom closet to show me some pictures of the inside of Beloved's knee --- suitable for framing --- and explained what all he did. He jotted down the names of the unrecognizable shapes in the pictures, but I'll have to take them to a pharmacist for translation. I'm pretty sure he didn't work on Beloved's bimaternal armistice.
Here we see the arthroscopic picture of Beloved's autumnal manacle prior to scandalosis.
All in all, and in all true truth, being a patient's patient partner is a piece of pound cake compared to being the actual ---you know --- patient. So I will dutifully and gratefully and lovingly provide transportation, change bandages, cook dinner, and sign insurance forms while I pray that this is the last time we will need to have front-row seats at a valv-o-rama.