humor

I was almost ready to paint out at the country estate today. I wanted my husband to take my photo now that I finally figured out how to put pictures on my blog!

I posed holding the paintbrush and he began snapping. What was my grimace about? Then, a really fakey, stupid smile. "Say something funny so I will have a natural smile!" I implored of him.

I should know better. He always surprises me.

"Two men in a bathtub," he began, "what is that?"

Rolling my eyes, feeling the heat of impatience creep up my tank shirt. "I don't know. . . " Grrr.

"Queer eye for the dirty guy!"

"Hey, I have another one." Still giggling, I waited.

"Balls of fire from Heaven."

I had no idea where this one was going.

"God's eye for the queer guy!"

You would think he could have gotten a good photo by now. Yes, I was laughing. He held the camera. No click, no click, no click. The heat was back up my tank top.

"WHAT, why aren't you taking a picture?"

"Because you don't like it when your mouth is open too wide!"

I gave up and started painting. And thinking. My husband has always had this unusual wit. He just sees life from another plain. I should have been writing a long time ago to save his golden nuggets of nuances and sometimes nuisance one-liners.

I guess when his humor meant the most was the day he had a stroke (at age 48, eleven years ago). He had driven himself to the hospital. I got the call at work.

I sped up the expressway in 5:00 rush hour traffic on the emergency lane and got pulled over. That was an answer to my frantic prayer for help. I had on a red, very fitted, very short skirted suit and my then platinum hair a la Suzanne Powder. As I lowered my window, my eyes must have been crazy wild because the copper hesitatingly asked, "What's the problem, mam?"

"My husband has just had a stroke. Either give me an escort to the hospital or move and let me go!"

To my shock and disappointment, he just let me brave the traffic, in the rain, on my own. I really wanted his escort help.

I made my way to the hospital, ran to my husband's side. He recognized me. Good. He held my hand. Good.

The nurse said, "Okay, now I am going to do some neurological tests. Please finish my sentence."

Okay, here we go. Is his brain working? What was life going to be like for us? Would he ever be normal again? Fear pounded through my veins. He is so young. Why, why, why?

"Please finish my sentence. Mary had a little lamb. . . ."

A spark lit in my husband's eyes. He grinned and said, ". . . and was she ever surprised!"

I started breathing again. He, the man of humor and quick wit, was still there!!!

A few years later, I cooked a birthday dinner for a friend. Baked chicken, filled with fresh sage, rosemary and thyme. I forgot or maybe I didn't really believe that sage causes seizures. Since the stroke, my husband had suffered many of those horrific episodes.

Sure enough, thirty minutes after our guests departed, he had another seizure.

As the emergency workers were rolling him to the ambulance, he said to the neighbors in our yard, "Don't eat my wife's cooking, look what it did to me!"

And once again, I knew he was going to be alright.

Smile. No grimace from me that night.