Man & Woman, Mars & Venus
Wednesday, January 27, 2010 at 4:19PM There's a sleek new racing bicycle in my basement that cost a small fortune which I've come to think of as "my belly."
Three years ago, I enjoyed an unexpected and mostly blissful twin pregnancy that created beauty. No doubt.
But also caused great destruction: a three-inch wide crater that winds a long, twisty road down the center of my tummy like a California fault line.
All women carry babies differently. I'm the kind who holds them like a torpedo sprouted from my belly button. By 38 weeks, Desmond and Josephine poked forth from my front like a NASA Space Shuttle ready to launch. They exerted so much pressure on my mid-section that they kindly ripped the tissue that once held my abdominal muscles together and left me with a peep hole into my internal organs.
Let's play a fun after-dinner party game: Oh, look, there's my intestine! Sadly, I am not exaggerating.
I've watched my belly crest and fall in inch-high waves after a meal. Horrified by the snake beneath my skin, I consulted the doctor who said, "Hernia" and recommended a general surgeon. The general surgeon ordered an MRI to peek inside then delivered the "good news." Technically, there's no hernia. Just a really big hole blown down the middle.
And the snake? That's called peristalsis, the process in which the esophagus forces food from the throat into the stomach. It means my digestive tract is working well and is totally normal.
EXCEPT NORMAL PEOPLE DON'T SEE IT HAPPENING!
Which brings me to the designer bike. The one that Kent ordered a few weeks ago as a present to himself with money from a well-deserved bonus. The bike replaces an old, outdated model that he's used for years in various triathlons. And crashed spectacularly on several occasions.
When he told me he planned to buy the bike, and how much he planned to pay for it, my first thought was about my belly. Apparently, I can add selfish to my list of faults.
No amount of exercise can repair my crater. Only a needle and thread can return the muscles to their original place. Only the skilled hands of a surgeon can make my abdomen work like nature's girdle to both hold - and hide - my organs. Like it used to.
But that, my friends, is what's known as elective surgery and it costs money. The kind of money that buys a really rad racing bike.
Kent walked his new wheels into the house the other day after they finally arrived at the store and asked: "What do you think?"
I think it looks like my belly surgery.
Now, at this point I planned to tell you how this made me feel like a heel, an unsupportive partner, a selfish wife. He worked for the bonus. Not me. I felt guilty for seeing what could have been instead of what was. And for rolling my eyes the next day when he excitedly shouted from the shower that the bike's computer measures "foot cadence."
(Don't you want to roll your eyes too? Just a little?)
But instead of telling you about what I hope was an entirely human reaction, I'm going to tell you that I think couples often see and experience things entirely differently. Because before I finished writing the post, I shared it with Kent. He pronounced one major element missing. I couldn't think of what. Not to save my life.
He says we talked about this surgery weeks before he got the bike; and he says he told me to find a doctor, schedule an appointment, get the show on the road, so to speak. I remember no such discussion.
A total disconnect. Just like when he showed me a bike and I saw my belly.
Reader Comments (3)
He made it up.
ding ding ding
Just for the sake of clarity, that "ding, ding, ding" sound is what you hear when a contestant has tried hard but is not correct. It is not an affirmation, Mr. Editor.