04/03/2026
I had high hopes for a relaxing weekend.
Sadly, the in‑home veterinary care clinic we now operate, under Haley’s leadership, scheduled me for active supervision instead.
Lucy is officially in the phase of recovery where:
• She feels good enough to forget she had surgery
• We do not forget she had surgery
My job now consists of standing near furniture making sure she:
Does not jump on the couch
Does not jump off the couch
Strongly considers whether movement is even necessary
We’ve also moved into incision watch mode.
I look at it.
Then I look again.
Then I say things like,
“Still not red. That’s good, right?”
And immediately feel like I should not be in charge of this.
This all feels familiar.
Because when I had hernia surgery last year, recovery was apparently supposed to be quick. Efficient. Almost recreational.
At least according to the ongoing historical reenactment that consisted mostly of:
“Well, Amanda's dad had hernia surgery and went back to work the next day.”
This was not offered as encouragement.
This was delivered as data.
Amadna's dad, older than me, forged in a tougher era, and employed in a job that almost certainly involves standing, lifting, or some kind of actual labor—returned to work immediately. Possibly under local anesthesia. Possibly during the surgery itself.
It was strongly implied that he woke up, stretched, nodded respectfully at modern medicine, and said,
“Alright then,”
before clocking in.
Meanwhile, I was still in bed, bravely battling gravity and self‑pity, daring to believe that “recovery time” applied to me.
So now, as Lucy is placed under strict, meticulous medical instructions to rest, recover, and absolutely not push herself, I find myself reflecting on the double standard.
Lucy is delicate.
Lucy needs time.
Lucy must heal.
I, on the other hand, apparently should have been back at my desk before the anesthesia wore off, powered exclusively by grit and whatever Amanda’s dad eats for breakfast.
Meanwhile, Lucy is clearly aware of her current appearance.
She catches her reflection. She freezes. She looks at me.
So naturally I explain: “Yes, you’re wearing socks.” “Yes, there’s a donut around your head.” “No, this isn’t forever.” “And yes, you’re still very brave.”
She does not appear convinced.
We have long conversations where I reassure her that:
• Everyone has awkward phases
• This is just a chapter
• And someday she’ll laugh about the sock era
She stares at me like I caused all of this.
My wife remains calm, focused, and alert. Lucy is healing well. And I am quietly guarding furniture like it owes me money.
All things considered, recovery is going great. As long as nobody jumps, nothing turns red, and Lucy forgives us for the outfit.
🍩
