Sex After Surgery: Do I Really Have To?

By: Saralee Perel

After my spinal cord surgery, the very last thing I wanted to resume was sex. My husband, Bob, didn't care about that. What drove him nuts was all of the insane double messages I was giving him.

"I'm not going to make love when you're making jokes like Jerry Seinfeld," he said.

"Whew! Then that's working."

"Your sarcasm is so witty," he said.

"Okay. I really mean it this time." I was lying stiff like a board on the bed. "I'm definitely ready. Are you?"

He was not ready. Much later, he leaned over me to kiss me. I sat up.

"You can't be serious. You're at this again? What's that matter with you? You've got a thing for women in braces?"

"I was just kissing you good-night!"

"Oh." I closed my eyes and then heard him begin to snore. I shook his shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean? Just kissing me good-night. You don't find me attractive anymore?"

"I wonder how many words are in Thesaurus.com that mean the same as ‘brat.' I bet there's one I haven't called you yet." Thinking that was the end of the conversation, he rolled over.

Fine! Fine!
"Hey! I'm obviously upset." He sat up.

"Then let's talk about it." I thought for a minute, having not expected his suggestion.

"Well, now I don't want to." He rolled back over.

"Fine."

"Fine? I'm in agony and all you can do is say ‘fine'?" He sighed. "What would you like me to do?"

"You could at least kiss me good-night." He leaned toward me again and kissed my forehead.

"That's a real turn-on," I said. Then he kissed me on the lips. "Hey buster, you better not be thinking about what I think you're thinking about."

"Trust me," he said. "I'm not."

"I can't even walk. Why don't you just buy one of those big inflatable rubber dolls? It would amount to the same thing."

Pizza is love
He got out of bed and went to the kitchen. With my cane, I hobbled to catch up. He was nuking a slice of pepperoni pizza.

"None for me?" I asked. "Or am I too fat for pizza?" He didn't answer as he got a second slice from the freezer. "Oh I see. Not only do I walk like Frankenstein, I've got a huge scar on my neck and a gigantic brace that obviously gives you very sick urges, and considering I had to ask for that slice, you're now saying I'm fat. Well, I haven't put on one pound since this whole ordeal, no thanks to you."

"What does that mean?"

"Look what you're doing. You're making me a big fattening slice of pizza!" Instead of responding, he sat at the table and stared at me as if I was a lunatic. I couldn't blame him. "I'm sorry, sweets," I said. "I really am. Here I am trying to lighten things up and instead I sound like I'm taking stuff out on you. I'm just so sick of depending on you for everything – my laundry, my meals, the housecleaning."

"You were like that before surgery."

"Very funny." I shuffled over to him, holding myself up by the table, then fell into his lap. "Can you forgive me for being so impossible tonight?"

"On one condition."

"Oh no, Bob. Why don't you just take a dirty magazine into the bathroom or something?" He could not control himself from laughing at that one. But he said, "The condition is that you tone down your brattiness."

Nurturing the nurturer
I realized then that Bob could use some nurturing. The caregiver deserves just as much care as the one who needs it in the first place. He quickly came to help when I went to get the pizza from the microwave.

"No, Bob. Let me try this myself. It will be my very first attempt at making a ‘real' meal," I teased. By putting the slices on a table that had little wheels on it, I was able to get them to the kitchen table. I even managed to get an orange to the table to add as a garnish. "It's a start," I said, luxuriating in that first bite of cheesy pepperoni pizza.

"It's a perfect start." And this time, he gave me a real-deal kiss that I liked almost as much as the pizza.

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, welcomes e-mails as sperel@saraleeperel.com or via her website: www.saraleeperel.com.

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