My husband has what I suspect is an auricular hematoma.
Or possibly a pseudocyst.
Now, as a Certified Athletic Trainer, I have a pretty good understanding of what I'm looking at. I've seen my fair share of ear injuries, particularly working with wrestlers.
But here's the thing.
I cannot make an official medical diagnosis.
And apparently, neither has anyone else.
At least not yet.
What I do know is that his ear has been swollen for two weeks, it's getting bigger, and the man has decided he's qualified to perform his own medical procedures.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It started with a trip to the military clinic, where the doctor suspected an infection from nicking his ear while shaving.
Except there was no nick.
No redness.
Just a swollen, squishy ear.
He was prescribed antibiotics.
A week later? Still swollen.
Naturally, I suggested he follow up with a medical professional.
My husband had a different idea.
A syringe.
Because apparently serving in the Navy also qualifies you to perform minor surgery in your bathroom.
News to me.
The Clipboard Warrior Has Been Summoned
Now, here's some important background.
I'm a Certified Athletic Trainer. An ATC.
And no, that doesn't mean I'm a personal trainer who stands around blowing a whistle and telling people to do jumping jacks.
Athletic trainers are healthcare professionals specializing in injury prevention, assessment, emergency care, and rehabilitation. We work with physicians and other healthcare providers, and despite the name, we don't just work with athletes.
Before having children, I worked with three public high school sports teams, including baseball, soccer, tennis, volleyball, basketball, football and wrestling.
Injuries? Seen them.
Skin conditions? Oh, the things I've seen.
I've also worked with adults in utility and warehouse settings, trying to prevent ordinary workdays from turning into workers' compensation claims or, God forbid, a phone call to OSHA.
I've spent years maintaining my professional credentials through military moves, state licensing requirements, and motherhood.
My husband, however, has spent a significant portion of our marriage referring to me as a clipboard warrior.
I suppose somewhere out there is an opposing army of poorly stretched hamstrings, and I was bravely defending the county with my clipboard.
You're welcome for my service.
He's also spent years treating my medical advice like unsolicited Yelp reviews.
Too uncomfortable.
Too inconvenient.
And don't even get me started on the TENS unit.
The man freaked the fuck out over a TENS unit.
But apparently, a needle in his ear?
Totally reasonable.
So imagine my surprise when the Clipboard Warrior was suddenly summoned for duty.
An Opportunity I Never Asked For
There I am, minding my own business, when he yells from the bathroom:
"I will give you the opportunity to do this."
The opportunity?
THE OPPORTUNITY?!
Sir, should I update my résumé? Is there a benefits package? Do I need to interview?
Because I don't recall applying for the position of Bathroom ENT Specialist.
"No," I replied.
Ten minutes later...
"I cannot believe you won't help me."
Interesting.
"You do this at work."
No, sir. I do not. this isn't some low budget horror film.
Because I value my professional credentials and everything I've done to earn them.
So my qualifications are irrelevant when I'm giving advice but suddenly essential when you need someone to poke your ear?
Make it make sense.
Naturally, he proceeded without me.
The swelling didn't budge.
Fantastic.
And then, as I'm sitting there questioning my life choices, he walks past and announces:
"All because my wife won't help me in my time of need."
Sir.
I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO HELP YOU.
I offered warm compresses. Basic first aid. You know, the reasonable things a person offers when their spouse has a medical issue.
I also recommended that you see an ENT, have your ear properly evaluated, and, if necessary, have it drained and packed by someone actually qualified to perform the procedure.
But no.
Instead, you drove yourself to Walgreens, somehow acquired a syringe, and returned home expecting me to perform surgery like we're starring in some low-budget horror movie.
WHAT IN THE BACKWOODS MEDICAL MALPRACTICE IS HAPPENING HERE?
Am I supposed to clear off the bathroom counter?
Put on some dramatic background music?
Hang a sign that says Clipboard Warrior Surgical Center — Walk-Ins Welcome?
Sir, I have two actual children and enough responsibilities without adding unlicensed bathroom surgeon to my résumé.
I offered first aid and recommended professional treatment
you want it cut off or mangled...
Someone please get me a shovel.
And before anyone asks what it's for, I'm pleading the Fifth.
I Already Have Three Children
Here's the thing.
I already have three children to take care of.
Two of them are actually children.
The third is a grown man who can operate incredibly complicated machinery but apparently cannot be trusted to leave his own ear alone.
And frankly, I don't have the energy to supervise another medical experiment.
I married this man for three reasons.
His looks.
His intelligence.
And his sense of humor.
Although the intelligence seems to go on an extended vacation whenever one of his own boo-boos is involved.
And if two of those three qualities disappear, I'm not entirely convinced this marriage is going to survive.
I'm kidding.
Mostly.
But seriously, if he permanently changes the appearance of his ear, what am I supposed to do?
Start over?
Do you have any idea how much work I've put into this man over the last twenty years?
I'm not training another husband from scratch.
Absolutely not.
Although, I'm beginning to understand why a woman I know has a wife.
Perhaps she's onto something.
Someone to share the mental load, make reasonable decisions, and multitask without requiring a PowerPoint presentation?
Sign me up.
Especially since my own multitasking abilities seem to have disappeared somewhere during our move south.
I don't know whether it's the humidity, exhaustion, or the fact that my brain has apparently filed for early retirement.
But another adult who can identify a problem and handle it without a detailed map and three follow-up questions?
That sounds pretty freaking fantastic.
Don't get me wrong. I love my husband.
I'm keeping him.
I've invested far too much time in this one.
I just wouldn't mind having a wife, too.
Anyway.
Back to the ear.
UPDATE: The Navy Has Entered the Chat
Well, he finally went back to the branch medical clinic.
And their recommendation?
"Take some ibuprofen and wait and see."
I'm sorry.
WHAT?
Two weeks of increasing swelling.
Antibiotics that accomplished nothing.
An ear that isn't improving.
And we're prescribing Motrin and positive thinking?
Ah, yes. Military medicine.
Is it gangrene?
No?
Fantastic. Here's some ibuprofen.
You motherfuckers.
JUST SEND THE MAN TO ENT.
I refused to participate in amateur bathroom surgery because I wanted him to receive actual medical care.
And now we're apparently watching his ear like it's a science experiment.
Watching it do WHAT?
Develop a personality?
Start collecting BAH?
Qualify as another dependent?
At this rate, I'm going to have to include it in the family Christmas card.
But here's what I'm beginning to wonder.
What the hell is my husband saying during these appointments?
Because when I take myself or the children to the doctor, I explain the symptoms, ask questions, and generally leave with a plan.
Or a referral.
My husband?
He leaves with Motrin and a suggestion to wait for divine intervention.
I'm starting to suspect he walks in and says, "Yeah, my ear's a little swollen. Doesn't really hurt."
Meanwhile, at home, I'm looking at an ear that's practically applying for its own military ID.
And oh my gosh, the whining about said ear.
Now, maybe he explained everything perfectly. I wasn't there.
But somehow, every appointment ends with him accepting his fate, coming home, proposing some questionable DIY medical solution, and then getting mad when I refuse to participate.
Sir.
Advocate for yourself.
I even offered to help you navigate the appointment.
And, shocker, you turned me down.
I am not the Navy's backup medical department.
And I am certainly not accepting referrals from the bathroom.
For Better or Worse. Apparently With Motrin.
At this point, all I want is for someone to figure out what's actually wrong with his ear before it becomes a permanent addition to his personality.
Because I do love this man.
He's intelligent, hardworking, funny, and one of my favorite people in the world.
But my gosh, he can be a doofus.
And between the bathroom surgery, the dramatic accusations of abandonment, and the Navy's unwavering faith in Motrin, my patience is wearing thin.
So, darling husband, if you're reading this:
I love you.
I support you.
I would very much like you to keep both ears in reasonably recognizable condition.
But the Clipboard Warrior Medical Center is closed.
Please consult an actual medical professional.
Preferably one who doesn't have to live with you afterward.
For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
And apparently, when all else fails, here's some Motrin and a prayer for divine intervention.
— Magnolia Stone
