I currently have:
- one fully-functioning uterus, for the first time in 7 years, thanks to the need to change my method of contraception
- one red, hard, bruised bicep, thanks to a nurse vigorously flu-jabbing me
- one sore, bleeding palm thanks to my own dumb deep slashing of my hand (too impatient for the cheesecake to thaw properly, I deserve what I get).
Ian has been stellar in taking care of me and allowing me to feel sorry for myself. Yesterday, after inflicting the deepest cut I have ever given myself, he was calm, careful, authoritative ? although it may all have been an act, as later he went against his own advice of ?keep pressure on it for at least an hour!? by saying ?let?s see the cut?? about 20 minutes later. Then, when I fell asleep last night before securing my palm properly, woke to about half a pint of blood next to me, and had to wake him up to change the linen, he didn?t moan about the cold, or the interruption of sleep, and simply asked ?how?s the hand??, at a time when I needed sympathy but not so much that I would feel crowded.
I?m a lucky girl, that a year and a half on, he completely gets me, in these small significant ways.
This is a 
You know if you are trying to kill yourself you want to go for the wrists and not the palm.
And you might want to go for a mouse or something if deserts are proving to be overly dangerous.
I do hope Ian woke up and said "Bloody heck women". Cause that would have been funny. ;)
Well, I'm not too sure that I'd like a mouse for dessert, even if chocolate coated.
And if he'd said 'women' I'd have looked for the other female in the room.
(Final way to alienate blog readers - be the SPG police.)
That's weird, because I've spent the past few days replacing dressings on Nikki's finger, which was horribly mutilated by a doctor on Sunday.