That Ain't No Way to Treat Hillbilly Mom

Yesterday I promised to out Hillbilly Husband as a worse caretaker
of me when I'm sick than I am of him when he's sick. Did you follow
that? Here is a short history of his imaginary crimes. Let's start with
something big, shall we?

Delivering the #1 Son. The day I went into labor, HH had driven
me all over creation and back in a 1980 Chevy Silverado that needed
shocks. This was apparent to me every time we hit a bump, which was
often, because we were driving around the South 40 of my grandma's
Christmas tree farm, trying to pick out a tree. We had HH's two boys
with us. They were 14 and 13 then, and four of us were crammed into
the cab of that pick-up truck. But I was forgiving...hey, it was December
11...Christmas was a-comin'.

That evening, HH took the boys back to their mom's house, and
went to visit his 80-year-old friend. No matter that I told him I wasn't
feeling too well. HH said, "I visit him every Sunday. It's just right up
the street. You know the number. " (1994. Before cell phones in
Redneckland). I remember well. I was watching The Simpsons. It
came on at 6:00 pm. By 6:20, I was having contractions 5 minutes
apart. I called HH. He said, "I just got here. I'll be there in a few
minutes." This guy lived half a mile from us. HH got home after 7:00.
I was standing up, leaning over the back of the couch, because it
hurt to sit or stand. I told HH my bag was packed, and I was ready
to go. He said, "OK, I'll be right there." I went into the kitchen for
a drink, (No, silly. Water.) because I didn't know when they'd let
me have water at the hospital. I had to stop to lean on the kitchen
table, and I heard water running. HH was taking a shower! He
finally came out after about 20 minutes, and said he wanted to be
clean, because we might be there a while. He had to grab a few
things. He was packing a bag, because he said it looked like he'd
have to stay overnight. He packed candy bars and deodorant and
some other shoes. By now the contractions were 3 minutes apart.
HH's response: "You're not the first woman ever to have a baby."
Comforting, huh?

It was a 30 minute ride to the hospital, then we had to go through
admitting, then they had to do a fetal monitor, then they said, "Oh,
you're in labor all right. You are 7 cm dilated. It won't do any good
to call in the anaesthsiologist. By the time he gets here, it will be too
late for an epidural." Okaaaayyyy. By this time it was 11:30 pm.
So they put me in a labor room, and wouldn't you know it, stubborn
old #1 wouldn't move, so they hooked me up to a pitocin drip, which
gives you, like, ubercontractions....with no painkillers. Along about
2:00 am, the sour-faced grim spinster-looking labor nurse called the
doctor and said she kind of thought I might need something, so he
authorized a shot of stadol, which I'm sure is like morphine safe for
labor or something, and old Nursie gave me half a hypodermic of it.
She said, "You might need the other half later." Darn tootin'! I needed
it about 1 minute later, but she made me wait a couple hours for it.
She and HH looked at each other over my head, in that let's just
humor her, she's wacked out of her mind look. Was HH helping
me breathe, holding my hand, wiping my brow? No. He sat in a
rocking chair, eating a Milky Way, asking Nursie if she could turn
up the heat, he was kind of cold, even wearing his jacket. Oh, don't
mind me, dripping buckets of sweat, all not-meant-to-be-seen parts
of me blowin' in the wind. We must make sure HH is comfy. Which
he must have been, because not long after that, he drifted off to sleep.
I must say his snores were particularly annoying while trying to push
out his big bowling-ball-headed baby who we came to find out was
face-up. Which means his skull had been grinding on my spine all
night instead of his malleable little face, thus explaining the
excruciating pain they all thought I was faking. HH still denies any
wrongdoing in this scenario. He says, "I knew we had plenty of time.
You didn't feel anything after that shot, anyway." I beg to differ.

The Week of Bed Rest. The next time I needed any help from
HH was 3 years later, when I was 6 months pregnant with #2. I had
a kidney infection, which caused premature contractions. The doctor
said he wanted me on a week of bed rest.

Oh, I had high hopes that HH would take care of me. He acted like
he was going to. He took a week off from work. And he told his boss
it was to take care of me, because I was on bed rest. Duh...it was
November, known in Redneckland as "Deer Season." HH would get
up in the morning and say he'd be back pretty soon. Then I wouldn't
see him until around 5:00 pm. Let's not forget that I had almost-3-year-
old #1 to look after. No, he was not potty-trained. It took a threat from
Christmas-tree-farm Santa a month later to achieve that. So I would lie
on the couch and have #1 bring me things I needed. I managed pretty
well. The worst part is that HH expected supper on the table when he
came home. I mentioned the whole week of bed rest thing to him, and
I believe his exact words were: "I don't think the doctor meant that you
can't stand up for a half hour to cook and do the dishes."

The Vasectomy. #2 son was due February 28. Along about the end
of January, HH tells me he's having a vasectomy on Friday. What?!?
I thought this was something you have to discuss with your partner.
Oh, HH assured me, he told the doctor he had discussed it with me.
Except he hadn't. And it wasn't so much the vasectomy that bothered
me as the timing. Now not only was I ready to deliver #2, but I had to
take care of Big Baby and #1. Because you know, ladies, that HH had
to be waited on hand and foot after his "surgery," which was just a little
snip, for gosh sakes, and you'd have thought he was dying from how he
carried on. Oh, and let's not forget that he couldn't lift anything, so that
left me getting #1 in and out of his car seat in the 2nd seat of a Ford
Aerostar van. And into a grocery cart so I could do the shopping and
not leave #1 home for HH to look after. And carry in the groceries.
Yep, it's perfectly OK for an 8-months-pregnant woman to lift a
30-pounder. That may be why #2 came two weeks early. He wanted
in on the "wait on me hand and foot" action. The best part of this
whole ordeal was being able to tell Whiny McWhinerson: "You're
not the first man ever to have a vasectomy."

The Gallstones. The only other time I needed HH was my gallstone
surgery. Well, he didn't actually do the surgery. He didn't actually do
much of anything. I had to stay in the hospital 4 days to get some enzyme
level down low enough so they could operate. HH came to visit me for
about an hour each morning and evening. Aside from that, he was free
to roam the countryside, because my Hillbilly Mama was worried to
death about him watching his own kids, who were 4 and 1. She took
on that duty, and he got off scott-free. He felt no guilt. I wasn't the
first woman ever to have her gallbladder removed, you know.