“Baby Got Back… Problems.”

Okay, my version probably won’t do well on the hip-hop music charts, but I think it will resonate with some readers on the hip-lumbar charts.

It all started one morning at breakfast when my wife said: “My back is killing me.” Being a sympathetic guy, I suggested she call the police and report a sacroiliac slayer on the loose. As this is a family paper I can’t print her exact response to my clever quip here, but let’s just say it involved some of these: #$%&^%$*&%.

So, Pat went to the pain clinic to get a shot. “Hope it hits the killer right in the… glute,” I said, continuing my rollicking routine designed to cheer her up. “#$%&^%$*&%,” she repeated. Humor is difficult some days.

Finally, Pat told me she had decided to have a double surgical procedure called a laminectomy and discectomy. Surgery, of course, is no laughing matter so I stifled my cutting-edge wit. 

We had just pulled up to the front of the hospital when my wife got a call saying the doctor had come in early and she needed to hop on up (sorry) to the second floor. “Do they need me to come up there, too?” I asked. 

“Ah, they asked me if you were the same Ernie that wrote ‘Ernie’s World’ and when I said yes, they suggested I come alone. They will call you when I’m in recovery.”

When the hospital finally called and said I could see Pat in about a half hour, I wondered if I should bring her anything. A voice in my head said “nah, your company is gift enough” but a second voice (yes, I have a number of voices in my head) said “flowers.” I thought about digging up a clump of cotoneaster from the drought-tolerant front yard, but dashed off to the local grocery store to purchase the least wilted bouquet leftover from Christmas, then I stuck it into one of Pat’s best vases figuring – with the post-op drugs – she’d think I’d specially picked out the beautiful vase with great care. And she did! Maybe I could get away with that again for Valentine’s Day.

After a successful surgery, the doctor insisted she spend at least one night at the hospital, which meant back home I had total control of the remote and could watch something totally disgusting. Woohoo!

The next afternoon I picked Pat up from the hospital, helped her into the house… “why is there a big chunk of cotoneaster missing?” (Okay, so the flowers were my second try.) “Not sure dear. Rats?”

I sat her in our (my) recliner and asked if she needed anything. “Ginger ale?” I checked the fridge. Nada. “Guess I could run to the store.” 

“Pencil,” Pat said. She made a list as long as my arm. How in the world did she know everything we were out of? At the store I saw a guy picking through the very, very last dregs of Christmas flowers. “Birthday,” he said. “My wife is just home from the hospital.” “Oh wow,” he said. “My condolences.” “Thanks, I’ll tell her you said that.” He smiled. “I meant for you.”

The next few days were a whirlwind. “Probably should do a load of laundry,” Pat said. That’s when I realized she was looking at me. Well, how hard could it be? “What the heck is that clunking sound?” That’s when I found out they make special soap just for laundry. So I stopped the machine and took out the two bars of Dove. “Tea?” Of course. “Toast?” Sure. “And I like it buttered all the way to the edges. And not overdone. Can you straighten out the rug by the door? And the bed needs making. Oops, you left the kitchen light on. Is the heat still going? Can I have my book? Not that one, the other one.” 

“How long before you are better?” I asked.

“Doc said a couple of weeks. Is the front door locked? Sounds like the washer stopped. More ginger ale, please.” 

I leaned into the fridge. Something twanged in my neck. “Do we have any cookies?” Pat yelled from the recliner. We didn’t. The expression “welcome to the golden years” echoed in my head.