As stated in my last blog, my superhero of a husband took an involuntary trip to norovirus hell. Though I lucked out in not tagging along. I still looked worse for wear in the aftermath. For two and half weeks I could only sponge bathe in our half bath downstairs. The O.R. nurse instructed me not to get the incisions wet, to only sponge bathe until the M.D. removed my stitches.
I bellyached at the idea of swapping my large shower complete with elaborate showerhead for sponge bathing. She playfully told my husband and myself to have “fun” with it together. Unless you are Gisele Bundchen and Tom Brady, sponge bathing sucks. And if Gisele were sporting a knee that had the signature of Dr. Frankenstein on her 5’10” legs, it would be a suck fest for them as well.
Near three weeks post-op, my stitches had been removed, and I was allowed to shower but not take a bath. However, 15 stairs separated me from a divine escape of washing my hair in a sink. In an effort to progress my rehab and find the source of the smell, most likely emanating from me, I decided to take on the catwalk of stairs. With crutches in hand and hubby forming a protective wall behind me, I climbed with all the grace of a model- who has one leg longer than the other. It wasn’t pretty or fun, but I made it to the top and I felt proud- not to mention exhausted.
Once in the bathroom, I prepared myself for getting into the shower. This took all the time, patience and precision of disarming a bomb. I didn’t have the strength or balance to stand unsupported without my brace in the shower. Hubby found an old wicker stool, fashioned a towel seat cushion and placed it in the tub. I sat at the edge of the tub careful to scoot backwards onto the make shift shower chair.
Unable to lift my leg over the tub, I relied on hubby to slowly carry and place my leg in. My swollen, painful limb disliked being moved. I was as nervous as Gisele would be faced with a plate full of carbs. Luckily, my hubby had steady hands and the pain was minimal. I was in. You cannot imagine what a relief it is to feel running water flowing all over your body after almost 3 weeks of dabbing with a washcloth. I was as alive and invigorated, as a super-model, strutting her Jimmy Choo heels and diamond-encrusted bra in front of millions, at the Victoria Secrets fashion show.
Then, I remembered I had an audience. Not being Gisele in any real sense of the word, I immediately became self-conscious over the “sweet rolls” I’d acquired. My husband thought my shyness ridiculous and was too nervous to leave the Gimp unattended. Promising not to get up without him, I instructed my bodyguard to get himself a drink. I was going to take my dear sweet time scrubbing.
Once every inch was soaked, scoured and shaved (and I resembled a prune), it was time to disembark the tub. My bodyguard, again, used much patience and precision removing the now squeaky clean swollen limb up and out. He wrapped me in a towel, and laughed at my ear- to- ear grin. I felt positively radiant, sweet rolls and all.
While I dried off and applied lotion to every square inch, I thought this long process was reminiscent of a car wash. I needed my “new car scent” to finish the job. With all our efforts focused on getting the Gimp upstairs and into the shower, we forgot clothes. This was a problem, because the norovirus incident prevented any laundry from being done. All of my stretchy and post surgical knee friendly clothes were dirty.
After my arduous trek upstairs, I had little strength to search in the deep abyss of the walk-n closet. This meant hubby had to be sent in. I knew this was a dangerous task. There was no need to be a fashionista, so I asked for a comfy tee shirt and pair of shorts.
He returned with what I call pajama “booty shorts”. Booty shorts are tiny, tight shorts worn to grab the attention of the opposite sex. Sex appeal was not even a glimmer in my mind, though I can’t blame a guy for trying. I rejected those booty shorts and sent him hunting again. He brought back a fitted tee shirt that was now too small for me (thank-you sweet rolls). The tiny tee shirt was also rejected. Then he returned with yet another tee shirt that was too small.
“ If you have clothes that are too small, why do you keep them?” he asked aggravated.
“ Because someday, I’ll lose the muffin top and fit in them again.” I replied irritated.
“ Well, when that day, comes why don’t you just buy new clothes?” he laughed.
Sensing a bit of sarcasm, I snapped back “ Its girl-code. You wouldn’t understand”.
He was sent back to the fashion pit and returned with another pair of colorful pajama booty shorts and I conceded to wearing them. Apparently all normal, non butt- hugging shorts were in the laundry.
“ I still need a shirt. Just look for something baggy, please.” I requested
Returning with a very large black shirt, he handed it to me stating, “ Here, this better fit.” I held out what looked a black tent in comparison to me.
“ This is your shirt! What do you think I’m fat?” I squealed in mock horror.
“It fits. Just wear the thing. I’ll get you some socks.” Tired of playing “ Queer eye for the straight guy” he hurriedly grabbed a pair. As God as my witness, he brought me holiday socks.
I conceded and slipped them on. With my crutches and brace, I limped out of the bathroom, and caught my sexy reflection in a window. A men’s billowy black shirt, against colorful striped booty shorts topped off with tall dancing Santa socks. Yes, move over Gisele, a new girl’s in town.