Whitewash (A tale of dirty laundry)

My husband does the laundry in our house.  It works for us.  Back before I met the hubs, my idea of doing the laundry was to let the dirty clothes pile up until I had absolutely nothing to wear.  Then I would stuff the clothes into the washer, and sometimes they would make it into the dryer the same day, sometimes it was the next day.  Then I would go to the dryer each day to pull out an outfit.


The hubs likes his clothes folded and on hangers in the closet.  Go figure.


So he has become accomplished in the wonders of washing.


Why is this significant?  Let me explain.


I have become an expert in wound care in the last two and a half years.  I spent nine months caring for an open wound after my lymph node dissection, and I’ve been treating a fat necrosis for the last month and a half after my breast reduction.  What does this all mean?


Blood.  Lots of blood.


I clean, I bandage, I add padding.  Somehow, I always bleed on my bras.  I don’t even think about it anymore.   When I see it, I just change clothes.  Looking at my own guts?  Nothing to it.


This all led up to this conversation last week:


Hubs: Why is this bra on the side of the hamper?


Me: There is a large bloodstain on it, I just wanted to make sure you saw it.


Hubs: No biggie, I ALWAYS check all your white clothes for bloodstains.


Me: <Facepalm>


This, my friends, is real marriage.

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