With crutches and a knee immobilizer slowing me down, I was completely worthless following my recent knee surgery. My superhero of a husband did everything from dinner, cleaning, and laundry to playing zookeeper for our animals. His superhero strengths paralleled the likes of Superman-if he fought off villains such as dirt, dust and hunger. I was his Gimpy Lois Lane and he waited on me hand and foot. My 6’2” man of steel possessed superhuman kindness and enough sense to defer my requests for a bell.
About two weeks into my recovery, there was an ominous knock at our door. Unlike last week, it wasn’t the Mormons or Jehovah Witnesses or even Avon calling. No, it was much worse. It was heinous. It was foul. It was…. the evil norovirus. Unfortunately, my husband answered the door and was bombarded by this nefarious villain. The next few days brought misery of epic proportions to my husband, who was now more Clark Kent than Superman. He was stripped of all his superhuman powers, and his cape lay wrinkled on the floor. We were mere sick mortals relying on each other. I had to get creative in order to get the bare necessities done. Cleanliness, of our bodies and house, was put on the back burner. Only way laundry could be done was by my fairy godmother, and she’s long been on hiatus. Food was only an issue for me, as he spent most of his time leaking out of one orifice or another. Though the longer this lasted the more dehydrated he became. The dehydration, a kryptonite, rendered him incredibly weak thus unable to get himself fluids.
Knowing my hubby was in need of a hydration heroine, I, the Gimpy Lois Lane decided to don his cape and attempt saving the day. Though not being of sound moral character as he, and having the stature of a hobbit, the cape was ill fitting. I was also at risk for falling with my crutches. However, being a woman, I am good at multitasking and creative problem solving. Substituting the cape for a tote bag around my neck, I relied on my trusty crutches and hobbled to the kitchen. Using my “go-go gadget arm” or reacher tool (seen usually in the hands of geriatrics) to open a cabinet above my head, grabbed a powerade and placed it in the tote bag (affectionately called the “feedbag”) still dangling from my neck. I managed to also score a water bottle and a pear. Proud of my super creative feats and hydration loot, I ambled back to the man of steel to deliver essential liquids. For two days, I performed my duties as gimpy sidekick to help nurse him back to health.
We were both scared that I would catch this highly contagious virus. Hubby did his best to Clorox wipe the bathroom after his frequent visits. I slept on the couch to get as far away as I could, as neither of us could make it upstairs. I just knew the dreadful disgusting virus would overtake me, and his nemesis would become my own since there was little space to evade it.
I carefully planned my options, which consisted of me retreating to the bathroom. Knowing I’d have little time if my bowels started to shimmy or retching was on the horizon. Whenever I get up there is planning involved, a large brace to don and crutches to assist my slow gait. And by no means could I “hug the porcelain god”, as I was incapable of squatting or crouching. Standing to yak seemed a deplorable option and the thought of throwing up into a trashcan elicited my gag reflex. I was done for.
I watched my hubby lie in misery for several days, attempting to ward off my impending doom. But, by some luck of the gods, I escaped it’s clutches. Was it the Clorox wipes? Was it my healthy immune system jacked up on vitamins to promote healing from surgery? I don’t know and don’t care. I’m just happy I didn’t have to experience puking vertically.
After what seemed like eternity, the villainous virus was defeated and superman recovered from dehydration thanks to his Gimpy sidekick. He was able to step outside into the sun regaining his powers once more. Ready to take on the world, it’s dirty miscreants and be my hero again. He soared into the laundry room, his cape billowing in his wake, just in time to save my next blog from being: “ Gimpy: The Nudist on Crutches”.