My husband won’t wear light gray sweatpants anymore
About a year ago, he had a cardiac arrest at home wearing his. My stepson alerted me, I called 911, started compressions, and they brought him back. After the medically-induced coma and the nearly 2-week hospital stay, he’s back home. We’re both in our very early 40s, and we have a dark sense of humor about the whole thing.
“My wife broke my ribs, because she’s a bitch!” he declared in the hospital.
“My husband’s a little bitch who can’t handle a few broken ribs from his itty-bitty wife,” I would retort back.
He’s 6’7, and I’m 5’8.
Turns out, some folks really do void their bowels when they die.
“Let’s not focus on that part,” he says.
“Want me to replace the light gray sweatpants they had to cut off you that night?”
“No. I don’t want to tempt fate.”
(This was dinner on the one-year anniversary: baked chicken strips and french fries, aka “We got KFC at home.”)