His Infatuation with Sterility

Greetings from Poosey.

My list of places that I can’t take husband Herb grows longer by the day. Today I added hospitals to my catalogue of banned spots.

We were visiting a good friend who was mending her way out of some sort of surgery and for once Herbie thought he’d ride along. Normally the man avoids anything even vaguely medical, fearing that if he’s around someone with a broken leg he might catch it. Actually, it’s the old poop’s aversion to any sort of pain that causes him to shy away from folks who are experiencing their own misery. Our family doctor gives him two days of sedation pills prior to his flu shot. I always advise the attending nurse to just hit him over the head with a bedpan and be done with it, but she always claims that the insurance won’t cover the cost of the pan.

As soon as we zipped through the doors of the hospital lobby Herb saw the first one …a hand antiseptic dispenser. Since he’s always assumed he’d be killed by one bug or another (he hasn’t found my gun) he stuck his hand under the spigot and grabbed a glob of the gooey germ killer. I was the only person he’d been with all day so I asked him if he suspected me of being a carrier. He just sniffed and said, “Can’t never be too clean, Freida,” and walked up the elevator where he found another germ squirt machine. This time he took a double dose. I said, “Poke second floor button,” and he told me, “I can’t. I’m sterile.” I told him that I was well aware of that, but we needed to go to the second floor. Until you’ve seen an arthritic old coot try to push a tiny white button with his elbow you just haven’t experienced all the thrills of modern medicine.

We somehow made it to the second floor of the hospital without contracting a case of Ebola en route, and when Herb stepped out of the elevator he saw another dispenser. This time he slathered himself liberally since we were getting close to sick people. Did you know that the door of every room in today’s hospital is now adorned with an antiseptic cream dispenser? And did you further realize that if you’ve going to room 221 you have to pass nine doors, and by the time you arrive at your destination your husband smells like an explosion at the Bath and Body Works factory? I walked in the door. Herb slid in on a carpet of white foam. Our friend was sleeping in her hospital bed but when she got a whiff of hygienic Herb she sat up with such force that I feared for her stitches. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, “but I smelled something. Must have been a dream.”

Herb’s sudden infatuation with sterility wasn’t the only reason I vowed to never take him into a hospital again unless he was the patient. Perhaps you’ve seen or raised a young kid who couldn’t keep his hands off things. Our friend had an antibiotic drip dribbling into her arm. My husband watched it as long as his adolescent impatience could endure, then reached up and started messing with it. “Herb!” I shouted. “Keep your hands off the equipment!” He said, “I just wanted to see how it works!” I slapped his hand and said, “And you’ll end up killing poor Helen here! For God’s sake just leave things alone.” The poor guy sat there whimpering like a whipped pup for the rest of our visit. In fact, were it not for his constant trips to Helen’s own antibiotic dispenser, he’d have probably gone to sleep out of boredom.

We said our goodbyes then sauntered down the hallway, again passing nine rooms, stopping to get a sterile spurt at each. After my initial attempts to grab his elbow and keep him moving, he learned how to sneak a squirt on the go. The idiot could hardly stay in his seat on the way home. He was so lathered with the stuff that every time we’d pull up to a stop sign he’d slide onto the floorboard.

Although it was a steamy day I had to drive with the windows down and the fan on full tilt. When we pulled through the Burger Barn drive-through I’m sure the little gal at the window assumed we were a florist who’d just collided with the blood mobile.

I know that infections are the No. 1 concern of the modern hospital and I applaud every effort they make to keep us healthy. However, No. 2 among their concerns should be addlebrained old men.

You ever ‘round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.