Last night we went on our nightly romp around the neighbourhood, I brought up the rear, trudging along behind the beau and the dog who marched dutifully onwards through the eerie suburbs of Ottawa. He blathered on about this and that, while I tried to avoid tripping on the dog as she weaved around erratically. I was mainly focused on my Spitz. In fact, fully focused on my Spitz. I come from the prairies, where Spitz are a way of life and I’d just scored myself a three-pack at Costco this weekend. They make the walks much more bearable, as it gives me something to do other than just walk. Pft, physical exertion is overrated I say!
It’s a long walk and I guess I ate a bunch more Spitz than I thought, which means I’d probably consumed more sodium than any one person should in a matter of half an hour. That didn’t stop me though, I’ll eat those things until I get blisters from the salt.
We got home and I went to brush my teeth before bed. I absent mindedly muttered that my stomach hurt.
Instantly, the beau was in the doorway of the bathroom, Med Student hat firmly ON. It was amazing how fast he’d gotten up there, he’s usually a pretty slow moving kind of guy.
“Your stomach? Like, here?” he asked, vaguely indicating somewhere that I had no idea involved my stomach. It’s way higher up than I thought. I could have sworn he was pointing to his heart, which frankly, is much more central than I ever realized.
“I don’t know, like, my stomach.” I kept brushing my teeth.
“Okay, well, like, here? Or is it further down? What do you mean by hurt?” He was getting into it now, the medical glaze was making its way over his eyes. “Why does it hurt? What’d you eat? What kind of pain do you mean by hurt?”
I really kind of just wanted to brush my damn teeth and go to bed. I didn’t feel like playing doctor. Trust me, it ISN’T a fun, sexy game.
“I dont know. Whatever. My tummy hurts, THAT kind of pain. Tummy hurt pain.”
He pondered this, no doubt running through his lectures and textbooks in his head, trying to remember when someone says ‘tummy’ does that indicate ‘death is imminent via gigantic tapeworm and tumor’ or ‘generally nothing, give them ginger ale and send them to bed’
“Well, I mean….”
“Gah! I dont know! My stomach hurts! I just ate a million sunflower seeds covered in salt that was covered in salt! It was just something to say! I’m fine, I just want to go to bed! I don’t need a full work-up!!”
I am slowly learning to never mention anything about my physical being or experience while living with him. Every itch, tic, spasm, cough or hiccup gets rocketed into ‘let’s play diagnosis!’ I’m barraged with questions, never-ending, subjected to pokes and instructed to breathe deeply. I’ve gotten very good at describing pain other than ‘ow’ or ‘I dunno, it hurts, stop pushing on it!’
Maybe I’ll get a shirt that says, “I’m fine, don’t touch me!”
I’m sure that’ll go over REALLY well. Maybe I should just try and not eat a pound of sunflower seeds on the walks, or else soon he’ll be lecturing me on strokes and hypertension.