Friends and Kitties!
If there's one word that describes both Scott and I, it's clumsy. (I know, you were probably picturing something else.) I can (and do) hit my head on everything imaginable, and Scott is forever whacking some body part or another up against immovable objects, in fact no more than two months ago he almost succeeded in amputating both little toes within two days--no mean feat. He's an accident waiting to happen in the making, so when he told me the other night that he was going out for a quick ride around the block on his bike to test something out I should have given it a little more consideration and said 'Honey, it's dark outside' instead of blithely waving him out the door, because what he actually ended up testing was the tensile strength limit of the ribs on his left side.
I suppose he'd have done better if he had stuck to the pavement where there's street lights, but a quick spin around the park across the road, with zero illumination and all the rocks and gravel was clearly the more adventurous choice.
So there I am, scootled up on the sofa with a blanky and some cats, when Scott comes in from the garage with a pained yet sheepish expression on his face:
Me: How was your ride?
Scott: Not so good.
Me: What happened?
Scott (hesitating, because he knows he did something stupid and I love to point out the obvious): I fell.
Me: Shit! Are you hurt? Let me see...
Scott: ow ow ow owwwww!
Already there was a HUGE bruise blossoming on his rib cage (which broke his fall) and a good-sized lump on his shin from where the pedal hit him. I packed him up with ice, ibuprofen and codeine--it wasn't worth a trip to the emergency room, cos what are they going to do any differently? Living with Scott I've got first aid down to a science--I cannot tell you how many times I've had to do the "does this need stitches?" assessment.
My poor husband made it through the night, albeit uncomfortably, and noisily endured for the next couple of days. His shin was fine, but the pain in his ribs wasn't abating. I, as a graduate (Summa Cum Laude) from the School of Silent Suffering was less than sympathetic--I told him that bruises take a while to heal, to take his pills, and for cripe's sake quit making all those little whimpery noises every time he breathed. (He detests being "mothered" so no soppy crap from me.) Apparently I didn't hit quite the right note on the sympathy scale because on the third day after the Nighttime Cycling Incident he took himself off to the Urgent Care where they X-rayed him, and sure enough, ribs number 8 and 9 had hairline fractures, and the physician said breaks take a while to heal, and keep taking his pills.
*headdesk*
Of course just knowing what exactly was wrong helped him immensely--and by golly he's been milking this one for all it's worth. I really can't fault him though, I imagine it must hurt like the dickens and he did admit that he's a total wimp when it comes to pain. But I do want him to heal up as quickly as possible because I've been doubly busy at home, doing the chores that normally Scott would do, which is virtually all the housework and with 13 cats there's a ton of it--vacuuming daily, scooping, sweeping, mopping, dusting. It's a lot! I am enjoying myself immensely by making him laugh though--he goes 'ha ha OW ha haOWWW don't make me laugh!"
It's fun.
It's been over a week now and he's getting better. The irritating moans and groans are gone, and I estimate that soon he'll be healed, hale and hearty, all ready for the next Incident.
There's a garden rake in the garage that looks particularly menacing...
Happy Sunday, and have a Safe Week!
XX Sheebie XX
