THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, April 21, 1996 TAG: 9604170042
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: HE SAID, SHE SAID
SOURCE: KERRY DOUGHERTY & DAVE ADDIS
LENGTH: Long : 101 lines
KERRY SAYS:
Dave, I've been thinking a lot this week about the different ways men and women cope with medical and household disasters. I've also been thinking about the different ways the sexes cope with silence.
I've had lots of time to think, you see, because I've had a rip-roaring sore throat. Not just your run-of-the-mill scratchy throat. Not just a suck-on-a-Sucrets-and-shut-up kind of throat.
This is the kind of throat that doctors wince at. The kind where they change your antibiotics daily while trying to figure out whether you've got some new flesh-eating strain of bacteria. The kind where they say the ``T'' word.
Tonsillectomy.
Tonsils are our friends, Dave, and I don't want to part with mine. Besides, having your tonsils out is the stuff kids do in colorful pajamas. Rumor has it that tonsillectomies after 40 are a lot worse than childbirth.
I can think of few things I'd like less in life than getting my middle-aged tonsils yanked. Even a hysterectomy has a certain je ne sais quoi at my age. I could recuperate by lying around the house in a pretty robe, sipping red wine and reading. But a tonsillectomy? A week or more of silence? A throat so sore you can't ``swallow your own spit,'' as one doctor subtly described it?
No, thanks.
Now if I were a guy I'd probably ask something like, ``How much will it hurt? How long will I be off from work? When can I play golf again? Are my tonsils bigger than a football field?'' (Guys measure everything by the length of a football field.)
But I'm not a guy.
I'm worrying about socks. Last week, as I was shuffling around the house sipping tea and closing my eyes every time I tried to swallow, I heard Steve muttering in the laundry room.
``Wherearethesocks?'' he growled.
Well, I was sick, and as would be expected there were no clean socks. The underwear supply in general was imperiled, provisions ran dangerously low, and dust bunnies were brazenly rolling out from under the furniture.
If all this happened when I was just under the weather - not even sick enough to miss work - what's gonna happen if I have surgery?
Socks will be the least of our problems. I foresee skinny children running wild around the neighborhood with dirty knees, matted hair and scabies. The cat developing mange, the goldfish gasping for air, the poor finches nosing around for a seed or two in their dirty bird cage.
I don't mean to be too dramatic about this, Dave. But I'm concerned. I'm facing surgery for something that will not even get me much sympathy. Steve keeps smiling every time he thinks about all this. Then he jovially assures me, ``We'll be fine.''
Should I believe him?
DAVE SAYS:
Yes, Kerry, you should believe him. Your family will be fine. This is not 1959, the year most women your age had their tonsils out.
For a modern woman you certainly have some old-fashioned ideas. Having your tonsils lifted no longer involves a three-day hospital stay and ``all the ice cream you can eat,'' which is a lie they used to tell panicky little kids to keep them calm through this ordeal.
The way hospitals operate these days, they'll probably send you home before lunch, though lunch will show up as a $38.95 charge on your bill. Remember, our editor had major back surgery last month and he was back on his own couch in 12 hours. And as for sympathy from spouses, here's they way he was greeted:
Editor: ``Honey, can you get me a pillow?''
Editor's wife: ``No. I'm sick of waiting on you hand and foot.''
The way I heard it, he'd been home all of 3 minutes when this exchange took place.
You do have one valid point: Even if you're home quickly, you won't be able to direct homefront operations the way you normally do. That is, with the bearing of a master sergeant and the voice of a bosun's mate. But you'll still be able to give Steve a little help.
Try this: Get a piece chalk and a little toy slate from the kids' room and keep it handy. You can even write some orders on it ahead of time, then just point to the proper instruction. Here are some phrases you might need:
``No, Steve, it's cereal first, then the milk.''
``No, Steve, don't order Szechuan takeout for their breakfast.''
``No, Steve, you cannot throw the kids into the Maytag with the socks.''
``No, Steve, not even on the `gentle' cycle.''
You get the idea.
Although there've been times when I've fantasized about removing your tonsils myself - sometimes with a Moto Tool, other times with my bare hands - I really do feel for you.
I've been doing my own laundry for a dozen years now, Kerry, so I'll stop by and supervise the ceremonial washing of the socks, if you like. And if you're a real good girl I'll spoon-feed you a little dish of ice cream.
I'd do all that just for the chance to see you move your lips and have nothing come out for a change.
Chocolate or vanilla, pal? MEMO: Kerry Dougherty can be reached at 446-2306, and via e-mail at
kerryd(at)norfolk.infi.net. Dave Addis can be reached at 446-2588, and
addis(at)worldnet.att.net
by CNB