What I Did for Love

No one who knows me will phone before noon, or drop in before noon, or ask me to do anything before noon. I do not function in the morning.

At around 7:30 a.m. today, my beloved shook me awake rather brusquely. From deep within my cave of covers, I snarled an uncharacteristic "Go away!" and flipped over.

"No, really," he persisted. "You need to get up."

I never need to get up. I forced open one eye to give him a dirty look. I was seeing red. Literally, there was red everywhere. As in blood-red. His blood.

Staring at meaty pulp where the tip of his pinkie used to be, I shot out of the sheets. What I did for love..

Abandoning all thoughts of sleep, I shifted into nurse mode.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I was playing with the dog. We were tussling back and forth with a bone, and he went to grab it as I pulled it away. His aim was a little off, and he caught my finger as he clamped onto the rawhide."

Because of the unfortunate collision of fang and finger, I abandoned my dream-state for wound-dressing. Then I sat Richard in a chair while I got down on my hands and knees to search for the missing tip. What I did for love.

Two pairs of guilty-looking canine eyes followed my every move. I didn't find the flesh. Did someone eat it? No one owned up.

I dragged a quick streak of Colgate across my teeth, swished a little Listerine, swiped a wet wash cloth over my face, and we headed to the hospital. Since I sleep in my RN scrubs, and didn't want to take the time to change, we got VIP treatment as soon as we arrived. (I worked night shift on the third floor there, but day people in the ED wouldn't have reason to know me. Everyone, however, respects "the uniform.")

The adrenaline that had carried me this far started to wane. I found myself nodding off in the treatment room as we waited to be seen. I had a brief period of reprieve when the parade of personnel came through: clerk, aide, nurse, nurse practitioner.

The NP removed the dressing I'd put on, glanced at the site, and redid it, using an entire roll of Kling wrap-at least half of which was unnecessary. Whereupon she remarked, "I don't think they'll be able to x-ray the finger through all this dressing."

Really???

When the floor nurse came back, I asked her to streamline the monstrous wad of gauze.

The x-ray tech came to escort Richard for films. While he was gone, it occurred to me that I hadn't had breakfast yet. Or even tea. By now it was almost ten. What I did for love.

Once he came back from x-ray (yes, they did it with the reduced dressing on), we were informed that there was indeed a fracture... as if missing flesh wasn't insult enough. They were calling in the plastic surgeon.

More waiting, still no nourishment. I was beginning to get crabby. Richard can easily skip a meal or two, while I supplement my three-a-day with mini-meals. He promised me breakfast as soon as we were through.

The doc arrived and, surveying the damage, recommended just cutting the whole mess off down to the joint. He injected many cc's of lidocaine and unsheathed his scalpel. He sliced with the knife; he cut with his scissors. Then he sutured and bandaged. I could feel the bagel beckoning; hear the coffee calling.

We were discharged with scripts for antibiotics and painkillers, and darted across the drive to the Medical Arts Building, where there is a mini-cafeteria. Richard, who is not a "sweets" person and can take-or-leave chocolate, grabbed a doughnut and a brownie. Yup, he was traumatized!

We got to the register and realized that together we did not have enough money. It's a cash-only operation. Stepping up to the plate (which sat there, just out of financial reach, with my muffin on it), I volunteered to go back across to the hospital's ATM so we could ransom our food. What I did for love.

I got breakfast; I was happy. Richard has pain, inconvenience, and a lot of explaining to do when people notice his deformed digit.

Despite the grousing, it was my pleasure to get out of bed, go hungry, hunt for hacked tissue, give him emotional support during the amputation, and fetch funds. There was never a question that I would, because it's what you do for love.

What would you do for love? A story of one wife's reluctant realization of what "the things we do for love" means.