Last week, my husband decided to play basketball with the younger folk
after work -- the first time he said "yes" in seven years. He called and told me someone fell on him. And for some reason, he could not walk off the charlie horse in his right leg. He drove home from Chicago. At midnight, he realized he had not stayed hydrated. The big "tell" was when his leg started cramping at midnight and he was hobbling around, yelling in pain. Instead of trying to sleep it off, I suggested he go to the hospital, which oddly, did not cross his mind at the time. A few hours at the local acute center and a frozen pizza later, he told me he had to find an orthopedic surgeon in the morning to confirm whether or not he ruptured his achilles. 
While at the art museum the next day, studying Monet's "Waterloo Bridge" and his theory on motif, I received a phone call. Hubbo asked, "Um...when should I have surgery? Apparently no one fell on me -- that was the actual sensation of rupturing my achilles." Considering we had a gig scheduled the next evening, he opted for the following Monday.The only surgery my husband had was when he was three. I had never seen him in a vulnerable position before. We received good luck calls and concerned calls, "Do you know what this entails?" My inner monologue answered, "Do we ever really know what we are in for?" Rightly or wrongly, Hubbo and I go through life
pretty nonchalantly. Bright and early, 6:15 came too soon. We registered, brought him to the changing area, cracking jokes the whole time. It reminded me of when I had surgery and he was making me laugh, which was pretty painful. But comic relief is golden in any situation. He spoke with the doctor, then woke up two hours later in the recovery room. I also spoke with the doctor who explained how the surgery went and recommended that Hubbo will need Vicoden. The same Vicoden he was refusing.So the week for me entailed a 4am run to Walgreens, after depleting
the take home dose that he supposedly did not need, learn 25+ songs by Saturday, manage a household and play nurse, entertain friends from out of town, sing the National Anthem at Miller Park, turn back around for two gigs in Illinois, then chillax at a ball game and cap the week off with dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant, Francesca's Intimo in Lake Forest.The week for Hubbo? Lots of rest. And work. And restlessness. For a productive man who needs to constantly move, he is not used to being vulnerable and bored. So, of course, he feels the need to train to the city and go in to work. Unfortunately this meant to get rid of the nice 5'o clock
shadow that had been growing throughout the week. I realized this was something I was always curious about. How do barbers shave others without cutting them? My husband was willing and let me try it. He walked me through everything. We started with a steaming hot towel to make the skin and hair soft. He taught me the correct amount of lotion and lather (good tablespoon or two). Then the razor. Yikes. I started trying to scrape off the ends; he told me to be more aggressive and faster. Again, yikes. Upstrokes for the neck, downstrokes on the face, across for the chinline, jokes for apprehension.No nicks and no patches. Not too bad, if I do say so myself.
