I can’t speak for your husband, I can only speak for mine. HE FEELS PAIN on a level never before recorded in the annals of time.
We were out on the patio this morning when he waved his hand at nothing in particular and a bee stung the index finger of his right hand. The bee was flying by minding bee business, his hand was in the way and it stung him or so he’s absolutely positive of.
He’s not allergic to bee stings. I know they can hurt because I was walking barefoot across the old wood back porch of our Forest home when I stepped on a black hornet. It stung me on the bottom of my foot. It wasn’t the bee’s fault because it was nestled with it’s rear not it’s head on the wood plank and didn’t see me coming anymore than I saw it.
He’s my husband so I’ll be blunt here. He’s not allergic to bee stings. I know they can hurt because I was walking barefoot across the old wood back porch of our Forest home when I stepped on a black hornet. It stung me on the bottom of my foot. It wasn’t the bee’s fault because it was nestled with it’s rear not it’s head on the wood plank and didn’t see me coming any more than I saw it. Did it hurt, you bet it did. My foot was swollen the size of a cantaloupe in a matter of minutes. It’s the one and only time I’ve ever been stung by a bee so I was in great empathy for my dear husband. As I recall it was the summer of the grand green bean harvest canning season. I propped my poor foot up on an empty bushel basket while I snapped the green beans of the remaining baskets, which I might add rendered fifty-quarts that year. My sweet husband feeling rather bad about my swollen foot waited until 7 pm to ask “what’s for dinner dear” that evening?
Doubled over in pain holding his finger uttering words better not placed upon the written page. I decided I had better give him a Benadryl before calling the EMT’s, fire department, police department and putting the trauma unit on alert. There was no swelling before or after the Benadryl. There, however, is a stinger the bee left if one could only find the dern thing. I’ve used everything from my seeing glasses to his magnifying lens and I can’t find the bugger. Since it’s there and he knows it’s there rending him helpless to the point it hurts to turn the page on a novel he is reading. I only know of one thing to do.
“Darling, I have my old biology microscope somewhere in a box in the basement left over from my high school days and If you would like me too, I can go find it? I’ll need to cut your finger off just below where you are convinced the poison stinger is, as you are calling it, and see if I can locate it, remove it; whereupon I can use the left-over fishing line from our last trout fishing outing to stitch your poor finger back on, less that nasty old poison stinger you are absolutely with no doubt in your mind certain is bringing you so much misery life has come to a complete halt.”
He’s out back now cutting the grass and trimming the hedges. He’s manning up and I’m having a gin and tonic.
Pass the knowledge on!