So The Wife came home last Tuesday night dry-heaving and pissing about some serious abdominal pain, "I think I have appendicitis," she groaned. I mean, women can really bitch about the stupidest shit sometimes, and me being your typical sensitive but super-intelligent male; I was like, "You probably just need to fart really bad."
"Just go get my old nursing text and read the part about appendicitis!"
So I read her some shit about abdominal pain in the right lower quadrant, and god knows what else. She's convinced she's going to fucking die; and I'm sitting there calculating the odds that tonight is the night my perfectly healthy counterpart gets stricken with some acute but deadly syndrome. I beg her to shut the fuck up and sleep on it.

Okay, so I have to negotiate this for several minutes, plead, and finally beg for her to come to bed and we'll reconoiter in the AM.

Eventually she went to sleep (thank God, this cracker has to get up early, know what I'm sayin'?). Anyways, she calls me the next morning at about 11am, on the verge of tears, talking about abdominal pain. Now, she's finishing nursing school in about ten days, and she had a test that evening. We rationalized that there was no point in going to see the PMD or an Urgent care center because they wouldn't have the diagnostic capability to tell use if she actually had appendicitis. She goes to the Emergency Department.

Which is nice, because I work at the hospital and I could come check on her every so often. You know, between building the $200 million capital budget that was due the next day. Just a little thing I had going on, and The Wife wants to piss and moan about a fucking fart she can't get rid of.

Fuckin-A was I wrong. And I mean, wronger than raping blind-folded children. She went into the ED that day at about 1, was diagnosed (CT and all) with appendicitis by three. Good Lord, I am the worst husband in the world. I almost killed the bitch!

So in between working, I would check in on her every thirty minutes or so. Seriously, that's how good of a nurse The Wife is. She self-diagnosed more than twelve hours ahead of time; and suffered her moronic husband's theories of The Worst Gas Ever. Of course, now this means every time someone gets a headache we're going to have to go get it checked out - but that's the price I pay for being stupid, I suppose.

She went under the knife at about midnight, got to her room about 3am, and was discharged about 4pm last Thursday. I stayed with her that night, and she was all drug-addled and out of it. It wasn't fun, but I couldn't fucking walk out of there until she was asleep, and I'd had the opportunity have a little 'Come to Jesus' with the appropriate staff. The Wife is doing fine now, but with NLN's, boards, and final projects pending; she had to go straight from recovery into the shit.