"My leg smarts," Donnie told me a few evenings ago.
"Let me see it," I requested.
He demurred. "It's no big deal. It seems to be weeping."
Now, people weep. Drama queens weep. Tragic heroines weep. But a leg should not weep! I insisted that he show me the leg.
Indeed, it was weeping -- for some good medical care. Donnie has diabetes, and one of the side effects is reduced sensation. Nonetheless, I could not believe that he was not in agony. The skin was off his leg by at least two layers from knee to ankle, and a growing infection was re-coloring it to a putrid yellow.
In the morning, I sent an enote to my boss, telling him I would be out for the day and dragged Donnie off to the doctor.
"My wife made me come," he complained to the doctor.
"Good for her," he responded. "I am going to make you come back much more frequently now, and right this instant I am sending you to a wound care clinic at the hospital."
As soon as we got to the hospital, Donnie complained, "My wife made me come."
"Good for her," said the staff. "We caught this infection in time. Otherwise, you might have lost your leg."
Whew! Next time I will also "make" him go to the doctor, too. What is it about the male ego that keeps them from dashing off to the doctor at the first instant of pain. (While I have a big of the macho "I'll do it when it gets worse" attitude in me, I am much better at deciding that I need qualified help than is Donnie.) Is it really a male thing, or does it just seem that way because all the men in my life are this way?
(Note: picture of Donnie with a friend, picking Meyer pears from the tree in our new backyard.)