The Darwin Exception

because it's not always survival of the fittest – sometimes the idiots get through

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So I Have This Husband

Posted by thedarwinexception on October 24, 2006

This is my husband 

His name is Paul.

He is a biker sort of guy, large, intimidating looking, and although he looks
mean, and would like everyone to think he’s mean, he really isn’t. He is,
though, quite a strange sort of guy. He likes to collect strange things. Like
skulls, snakes, Nazi and German paraphernalia, Rebel crap, KKK crap, anything that could be considered “shocking” to a normal person.

And he has this parachute. More on that later when it stops raining (or snowing) and I can take a good picture of it. But for now, I’ll relate my favorite story about Paul – wherein he gets a concussion from a Big Mac.

So hubby has this very strange habit of eating while lying down. I think it’s a holdover from his days of being breastfed (so keep that in mind when you are breastfeeding your kids while lying down). It’s some weird “comfort” thing he has – if he can’t sleep, he’ll go to the fridge, grab something to eat and then lay down and eat himself to sleep (I told you he was a stupid fuck).

So, hubby comes home late from work one day (and this happened quite a while ago – we were still in Florida, in fact), and on his way home he had stopped and picked up a couple of Big Macs, eaten one on the way home and saved one for “later.” So, he’s home, watching TV, laying on the couch, and, of course, to “relax”, he decides to go get his extra Big Mac and eat that while lying on the couch.

I’m sitting on the end of the couch, muttering under my breath about how I should just take my tit out and breastfeed the weirdo, when all of a sudden, hubby starts flailing his arms around wildly and trying to sit up. I look over and wonder “What the fuck is he doing now? Looking for fries?” Hubby starts performing some kind of weird CPR on himself, punching on his chest with his closed fist, all the while his eyes are bugging out of his head and his lips are turning a little blue. I suddenly think to myself “Hey! I think the stupid fuck has some special sauce sliding down the wrong hole!” (Then I laugh because that’s a kind of funny double entendre if you think about it.). So I’m laughing at the joke I told myself (ok, and him – a little bit) and hubby is still wildly beating on his chest and trying to sit up.

Suddenly he catches his breath with this *huge* special effect movie “I’ve come back to life!” kind of intake of air, and starts coughing. (And this is where the concussion comes in to play). He’s coughing and coughing, hacking and spitting, (he says “violently coughing”) for like a full minute. Finally, he starts breathing normally and he grabs his head with both of his hands and says “Oh man, I have a terrible headache!” I say “Yeah, I’ve told you about eating when you are laying down – don’t do it!” He says “No! I mean it! It just came on – it’s like a migraine – I think I have a concussion!” I say “A concussion?? How the fuck do you think you got a concussion? Do you know what a concussion *is*? What, did someone beat you over the fucking head before they gave you the Big Mac? You don’t have a concussion.”  

Hubby insists that yes, he indeed *does* have a concussion, and he got it from “violently coughing”. See, he coughed *so* hard that he slammed his brain around in his head, causing him a concussion. I tell him “Ok, here’s what you do – go to bed and go to sleep. If I can’t wake you up in the morning, I’ll concede that you do, indeed, have a concussion, kay?”

Hubby, though, is having none of this. He insists that I need to drive him to the emergency room *right away* because concussions can be really, really  dangerous if left untreated. He says “I could slip into a coma at any moment -and *then* what would you do?” I tell him “Well, I’m thinking I *might* finish that Big Mac.”  

So, finally, hubby breaks me down with his constant and relentless insistence that he’s on death’s door, and that I *really* need to drive him to the emergency room, before he like, up and fucking dies right there in the living room from this untreated concussion he has, and I finally agree to do so, just to shut his ass up. All the while we are driving there, though, I am telling him that there is no way in *hell* that I am walking up to that triage nurse and telling her that hubby has a concussion from eating a Big Mac, and that this is something he is going to have to do on his own. He says he has *no* problem doing this, because he is quite certain of his diagnosis, and he’s utterly convinced that all the brain specialists they are going to call in for his dire condition are going to agree with him once they have him hooked up to those EEG machines.

So, we finally reach the emergency room, and hubby tells me to go get a wheelchair, and after 5 minutes of arguing in the parking lot because I refuse to do so, he somehow manages to walk under his own power to the big double wide ER doors and he’s able to somehow make it to the desk of the triage nurse.

I follow along – with enough distance between us so that I can disavow knowing the idiot, but close enough to hear what he tells the nurse. He gets to the desk and says “I think I have a concussion.”

Nurse: You have a concussion? Were you hit on the head?

Hubby: No, I was violently coughing.

Nurse: Do you have a cold?

Hubby: No, I was choking and when I caught my breath I started coughing violently.

Nurse: Did you hit your head while you were coughing? Did you lose consciousness?

Hubby: No, I was just coughing violently, and I think when I was coughing I slammed my brain against the back of my skull.

Now the nurse starts to smile a little, and I can tell she’s trying really, really hard not to laugh. And I start to wonder if the ER has cameras to record these kinds of things, you know, so that they can all sit around and laugh at them later. I mean, who wouldn’t want a tape of the guy who comes in with the “gerbil up the butt” story, or the one who has an orange penis after he was eating Cheeto’s and watching porn – or the guy who got a  concussion from a Big Mac? “Best of ER”, you know? Hey, I’d buy the DVD. Or at least put it in my NetFlix queue.

So I can tell that hubby is getting a little bit pissed off that the nurse seems to be taking him about as seriously as I did. He finally says to her “I just need to see a doctor!” She gets up and says “Well, go have a seat sir, and I’ll find someone.”

Now, I know she just had to get up and leave because she couldn’t hold in the laughter much longer and she didn’t want to laugh in his face. I mean, she never even asked for an insurance card. In fact, she hadn’t even asked hubby his name yet – but she was going to go “find someone?” Yeah, she was going to go looking for the AV guy and make sure the cameras were running, that’s the only “someone” she was finding.

So hubby goes and sits down in the waiting area, and I follow him and sit across from him (again, don’t want to be perceived as “the woman with the kook” – especially on camera). I’m trying hard not to laugh, and I say to hubby “So, are they paging the brain specialist?” Hubby looks at me like I’m, like, *sympathizing* with him or something, and says “I don’t think she *believes* me!” I just look at him incredulously and say “No! She *doesn’t*? That bitch! Did you tell her how you were *violently* coughing?” And hubby – all serious like – says “Yes! Of course I did!” And I said “Well, Goddamned, I just don’t get it! Maybe it’s just this small town hospital – maybe we should have driven to Sarasota.” Hubby says – again, all fucking *serious* like, as if I’m *not* being sarcastic in the least (and he *really* should know better – I blame it on the concussion) “Do you really think we should have?” I look at him and say “No You Idiot! I can’t even believe you got me to drive you *here*! You don’t have a fucking concussion! But I *am* beginning to think you suffered *some* kind of brain damage!”

Finally, after about 15 minutes or so of waiting hubby suddenly declares that he thinks his “concussion” may have lessened in severity – somewhere  during the period of driving to the hospital, arguing in the parking lot, explaining his dire condition to the nurse, and now waiting in the waiting  room the pain has subsided considerably. I say “Good! Let’s Go!” and he says that, well, first he has to make sure that the hospital isn’t going to  charge him for the visit, and this is when I break it to him that I *really* don’t think they went to call a brain specialist, and I ask him “Hon – did  they even ask you your *name*?” Once he realizes that no, they didn’t, and that they really can’t charge him without it, we leave and go back home.

On the way home we stopped and got Quarter Pounders. Hubby swore off Big Macs. He hasn’t eaten another one since. But he still *insists* he got a concussion from “violently coughing”.


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