My husband Seth and I got married almost 30 years ago. We were both about 21 years old when the incident occurred.
At that age, you just don't get it.
Because here's the thing — if you are both endowed with the gift of a reasonably long life, you have made a vow...you have promised to take care of each other. You have a deal that has a clause for long-term care over the course of life that will certainly include some illness, injury, and eventually some slobber.
If you are the man, it may not be a bad deal. If you happen to consume enough Klondike bars to propel yourself into a bad case of diabetes, you can be sure that your Clorox-toting wife will keep the wounds on your feet practically sterile and make sure you take your medication at exactly the optimum moment.
If however, you happen to be a woman, you are entrusting your care to a gender of hominid who believes maggots are the coolest wound dressing EVER, and who feels that turning your underwear inside out is exactly the same as wearing a clean pair.
But the fact is when you are 21, "in sickness and in health" is romance, not reality.
Which brings me to the hair story.
I think I may have mentioned that I broke my arm a couple of years ago. Shattered my arm. It actually temporarily shattered my life, because it brought everything to a screeching halt. I spent four or five days in the hospital leading up to surgery, during which time I could only cope with the misery with the help of constant intravenous pain medication. To tell the truth, I would rather have a baby.
But Seth was there to help. He is the type of person who just does what he has to do in a crisis, and doesn't complain about it.