Don't Call Her Charlie

I haven't blogged for awhile and with good reason. I've been a little under the weather so to speak. More specifically I have the head spins with headache and loss of appetite. I finally decided to go to the doctor except I had to find one. I kept meaning to ask relatives who they recommend but I kept forgetting. Finally I got down to my last couple of pills per bottle and had to engage in a plan of action or suffer whatever dreadful misery awaited at the bottom of an empty prescription pill bottle.

I looked for doctors in my town because I didn't want to drive to Peoria just to get a script and I figured that, hey, why not have a doctor near by. It's sort of like having a lawyer on retainer but instead of the financial pain you might get from an attorney the doctor just jabs a needle in your arm (if you're lucky) and takes out or puts in some sort of fluid.

At any rate I narrowed my search to two practices in town and the lucky winner would be whoever answered the phone first. I think I lucked out though. My new doctor is named Donald King. Now I can say "I got a meeting with Don King about some bihness." It sounds kinda cool anyway.

So I finally meet with Don King which brings me to the real subject of today's entry. He was asking me a lot of questions trying to get a picture of my health and history. I had to give the abridged version because, well, if you know me I've had a lot of visits to the ER. But anyway he was asking me questions about how others in my life are concerned about my health. Primarily my wife. He said something like "I'm sure your wife is concerned about your health, too." I must of looked confused trying to figure out a way to say "I'm not sure, I can't tell," or something because he changed the subject to something else.

But I kept thinking about how to respond to that query. I mean, I'm sure she cares but really you'd never be able to tell. Which then reminded me of this girlfriend I had in 6th grade who, upon learning I had broken my wrist, said, "Good job."

My wife used to seem to have emotion but now she's more like that hot girl who plays the helpful terminator on the Sarah Conner Chronicles...I think they named her Cameron. They seem to have a lot in common: like hiding (or the lack of) emotion leads to a cold death machine that will kill you at any moment.

But it wasn't always this way. She (my wife, not the terminator) used to show anger, sadness, happiness, and the rest...it's true, I could tell by the look on her face. I can still make her laugh but I have to try real hard and it makes me out of breath and I start sweating (paging Don King).

The turning point was a little more than 4 years ago. She squeezed out a kid and afterwards it was like she just got back from NAM. Thank god she doesn't have flashbacks...or maybe she does. She gets kinda mean in her sleep. Must be some repressed anger in there some where. She scares the heck out of me. Grinding her teeth in her sleep, grunting. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think someone's getting ready to slaughter a pig in the bed next to me.

Of course I am (like men in most relationships) the target of whatever output of anger and frustration there may be. But most of the time you wouldn't expect it. She won't be showing emotion then, bam! Ever get punched in the face by a blank canvas?

No, she doesn't physically abuse me, that would be silly...no really, these bruises are from when I walked into a door. But seriously, she's a 5 foot 3 powder keg.

But I imagine she'll read this post and yell at me...or I'll ask her about it and she'll say "Yeah, I read it." Or maybe she'll re-develop a sense of humor.