distractions

In ALL, BOOB TUBE, ILLNESS by Stephanie Klein

It was the first night I slept alone in our new house. We moved recently. The kids are in the same school district but will attend a new elementary school. On Monday night, Phil’s parents took the kids, and after visiting Phil, I returned to an empty house, in a new neighborhood. I bolted the front door.

It was weird watching the Final Rose Bachelorette episode without Phil beside me making snide remarks. [Personally, I felt the best husband material was Ben H. Why doesn’t anyone ever mentor the Bachelor or Bachelorette, and remind them that they want the person who’ll create the least drama in their lives?]

I checked all the locks before secluding myself in our bedroom, then locked my bedroom door. It’s weird because I wouldn’t do these things if the kids were home with me. I was scared. I needed a distraction.

I began to listen to an excellent audiobook, The Life We Bury by Allen Eskens. I’ve recently finished it, and I highly recommend it. Well written. Granted, I solved it immediately, because I ALWAYS solve mysteries and ruin them for others when I think the “who done it” is obvious. I think it’s because I’m a writer. I pick up on the slightest clues. I won’t ruin it for you, but I do suggest you either read it or enjoy the audio, whether or not you need a distraction.

Before anyone pats me on the back for being a real smarty pants, I should make it clear that I was listening to this audiobook through headphones, then realized that I wouldn’t hear any burglars break in, so instead of simply removing the headphones and lowering the volume a bit, I stopped the audiobook and turned on the television. I’m wicked smart, I know.

A delicious distraction presented itself on TV Land: Younger. On Demand. Binged it. It’s like a Danielle Steele meets Gilmore Girls, light summer beach read without actual reading. Light, easy, snappy. I unlocked my bedroom door now that I had company.

Tonight, Wednesday, I came to the hospital once Phil was out of his procedure. The plan was for him to go home tonight. He was dead set on it. I approached his bed, and he’s curled into a comma. From there he asked for a puke bucket. Still, he insists on going home. “Not a chance in hell,” I tell him. “No way are you coming home not feeling well.” If he came home and started retching at this point, I’d call 911! He is in pain and yelling at me to stop making faces.

I’m trying not to make faces! But when you see someone in pain, you mimic a pained face. Or a compassionate face. A loving pout face that says, “Poor baby, I’m here for you.” He wants NO FACES! I keep offering to do things, to get a nurse, or check on some meds, and he just tells me to stop talking. So, I distract myself by writing this, looking down at this white screen as he tries to puke into a basin about 2 feet from my knees. My next stop? Netflix.