Cautionary note: I am under the influence of pain killers that come with lots of advisories about operating heavy machinery, so if the following posting is a little less lucid than usual, please accept my apologies.
I missed my usual B-shift posting on Saturday due a major gravity storm. It was a real-life case of "I've fallen and I can't get up." It would have been extremely humiliating if it hadn't been so extremely painful.
And a note here: if you like watching bad movies, Road House starring Patrick Swayze is a must-see. My favorite line from that movie is often heard at our house because it's so ridiculously macho that it fits a lot of situations involving manly studliness. I can't even remember the context anymore. I'm guessing that he has been beat-up again, and some babe says "Doesn't that hurt?" or something. Swayze looks at her meaningfully and says, "Pain don't hurt." Despite my natural inclination to believe everything I hear in Patrick Swayze B movies, I would like to set the record straight on this matter once and for all: Pain hurts.
Here's something else I learned: the wooden steps out our back door to the patio (the patio itself consists of basalt rocks cemented together into a mosaic of pointy pain) get really slippery in the rain. I learned this at the moment that my feet were no longer underneath me. As I did not have the ability to hover in the air until I could re-orient my feet, my body returned to the steps, back first. Or, as Douglas Adams would say, I flew like a brick.
Luckily for me, Drew had the day off, because I think I was hollering for him before I even hit the ground. He helped me back inside where I lay on my bed, hoping the pain would go away so I wouldn't have to go to the emergency room. It didn't, so I did.
Once at the hospital, I was again pronounced lucky, because I landed about kidney height, which means I missed breaking any bones - missed the hipbones below, the ribs above, and the spine to the side. Which leaves me with a beaut of a bruise on my back and muscle spasms that send me screaming for mercy when I move. But those are treatable with the wonders of modern chemistry. A little Vicodin, a little Flexiril, and although it still hurts, I don't care as much.
Now it's Monday morning, and I am definitely making progress. Saturday, I was pretty much immobilized by pain. Sunday, I could make it to the bathroom by taking baby steps all hunched over, holding on to the walls for support, and going "ow, ow, ow." Today I've moved from Sunday's Australopithicus-style hunched-over gait, to a more Homo Erectus sort of posture. Tomorrow, with the help of modern medicine, I totally expect to be at Homo sapiens level once again.
Man, am I glad Drew had these days off. Without him, I would still be out on the patio in a crumpled-up ball of pain. He has fixed me ice packs, helped me to the bathroom when standing on my feet was nearly impossible, driven me to the emergency room, piloted my wheelchair all over the ER, filled my prescriptions, fixed me drinks, and cooked meals for me. I couldn't ask for a better Valentine. I know that as a fire fighter and fire captain, he has had the opportunity to be a much more glamorous hero, but he is my hero first and foremost for taking such gentle care of me this weekend. Thanks, Drew. You are my Valentine, just like every year. But especially this year.