What started out as just another routine appointment accompanying my husband, turned out to be a few of my least favorite adventures ever.

What a morning. I feel like between 8:00 am and 9:30 am, I was in a battle. Whew. I survived, barely.

If you know me at all, you know I have a very strong aversion and traumatic inner response to guns, among a host of other things. And balloons. But most definitely guns. Long story for a chapter in a someday book, but not here. HOWEVER. We arrived at the doctor’s office on this beautiful and sunny Monday morning and after filling out the forms and visiting with the elderly lady about how cold she gets, another patient walked in the office and stood at the counter to check in. Sam looked at me wide-eyed. I had not noticed…yet.

I know it to be true and among us, I just had not experienced “open carry.”

Cue the inner alarm sweaty palms heart palpitation response for no reason other than my visual trigger.

I only panicked internally, and shortly thereafter, the nurse was at the gate, calling Sam’s name. Most definitely, I went with him and left the wild, wild west out in the waiting room.

This appointment was not earth-shattering like so many of his appointments in the past five years. This was just a simple, “Doctor, please do something about my toenail fungus” appointment. Easy peasy, look at the feet, write a ‘script, see-ya-later-alligator-toes.

Au contraire mon frere. Not when Rhonda’s already in distress enough.

If you know me at all, you know I have a very strong aversion and traumatic inner response to all things toe nails, among a host of other things. And balloons. But most definitely toe nails. Never have I ever had a pedicure. Never have I ever clipped nails of any kind in public. It is meant to happen in the privacy of a sound proof bathroom…if you ask MY opinion. Apparently, most people do not care about my opinion.

When the doctor and Sam and Rhonda determined the treatment at the conclusion of the exam, and he finished with, “The nurse will be in to trim down the nails before the laser treatment begins,” Rhonda must have been in La-La Land, or else she is in love.

Ohmagoodness.

trau·ma

/ˈtroumə,ˈtrômə/

1. a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

When the nurse entered the room with gardening pruners and began her work, my stomach began to flip. When a nail flew through the air and landed on my jacket, I gripped the chair. Sam suddenly realized Rhonda was in distress, began laughing, and insisted I step out of the room. I COULD NOT EXIT FAST ENOUGH.

I stood outside the door and listened to him explain my ailment to the nurse, while I braced myself against the wall to keep from nauseating in my mask. The doctor walked by and asked if they had kicked me out. Sheepishly, I had to explain my “issue.” Another nurse was nearby and offered me a chair so I wouldn’t faint.

As soon as the gardening was done, the nurse exited, and I re-entered the room to take my seat once again. When the next nurse arrived to begin the laser treatments, I was more than happy to put on the dark glasses and stare at the floor. He was such a nice nurse, telling us all about his jaunts around Colorado, explaining the meaning of his really cool tattoos, taking my mind off the elephant in the room.

Nay, nay, I say. Not when Rhonda’s already in distress enough.

If you know me at all, you know I have a very strong aversion and traumatic inner response to women being treated as possessions, among a host of other things. And balloons. But most definitely to women being treated as possessions.

He said the unsayable. As the lovely nurse is going over the next steps in treating this horrific malady, he explained the $35 cream that is recommended but not required. Being the concerned partner I am and wanting Sam to have the best possible outcome since I have had to endure such trauma, I gave the nurse an energetic thumbs up yes-we-want-the-stuff-add-it-to-the-bill. Sam was going to be Sam and decline because $35 is $35 and no he doesn’t need it. HOWEVER. The nurse saw my gesture…and he said…

“The wife says yes.”

The WHO???

I am not a THE.

I have a name.

I am not Sam’s possession.

And you, lovely, kind nurse, are now in MY internal red hot laser beam of trauma therapy.

All this…because of love.