(I'm not complaining, I know how fortunate I am to have health insurance and easy access to quality physicians and health care professionals. I just like having money. That's all.)
Lemme esplain. No, wait, is too long, lemme sum up. (This is a summing up. I promise, the whole story is EVEN LONGER.)
I was awakened this morning to caterwauling of the worst kind:
No, not my cats.
I mean, Minion was being all whiny earlier in the evening- I was laying in bed when I hear "Mrow? Mrow? MROW? MROW?!? MROWMROWMROW!" "Minion, shut up!" *30 second of silence* "Mrow? Mrowmrowmrow?" "GAH! Shut up you stupid cat or I will never feed you again!" Then I fell asleep. I was really tired. Overdose of rage.
Wait, let me back up. When I went to bed, the hubs wanted to converse about something. (I don't even remember what. I'm kind of rude like that.) And I said, "Honey, I'm sorry. I just need to go to sleep now. I'm so tired, and really just need a full nights sleep."
So, at 2:30 a.m., caterwauling.
Disregarding the fact that, well, I'm not exactly fully clothed (partially, but not fit for polite company), I rush down the stairs fearing some dire emergency, to find my husband writhing on the couch. In pain. Because he has multiple protruding cervical dics, and the other day, when our windows were being replaced (Did I mention that I have the absolutely best in-laws in the entire world?) we had to catch Diego.
"Ah ha," you (my faithful blog reader) say, you knew it was the cats' fault. You are so smart.
While the hubs was standing in a stationary, "blocking-this-direction" sort of position, Diego did the "dart-twirl-spin." "Wait," you are thinking, "Isn't that Minion's special move? Isn't that why you call him "The Minion Underfoot?" You're right again! Apparantly, Diego has been taking lessons. He darted between the hubs' legs, twirled around his ankles, then spun and took off in another direction.
The hubs was not expecting this. It caused him to make a sudden move, and immediately un-did multiple weeks of painful recovery from his ongoing spine issue. Sigh.
At least, that's what we thought. UNTIL THIS MORNING. Because at some point, in between alternating ice and heat, the pain grew so intense that he couldn't move. Hence me, flying down the stairs, Lady Godiva reborn. (Except there were no peasants. Or horses.)
And of course it was pouring down rain, at 2:30 am, as I struggled to wake up enough to get myself dressed, dig out clothes for the hubby (and as my mother told me, always wear clean underwear, because you NEVER KNOW when you will end up in the emergency room.) And of course the car wasn't parked terribly close to the house. And OF COURSE my husband couldn't walk, and begged me to call an ambulance... and I didn't.
Because I am a
Who likes money (see above).
Yes, in the middle of trying to keep my head on straight (i.e. not collapse in tears at the insanity of the situation), I actually took a moment to think, "We live less than a block from the hospital.
He did manage to make it to the car. We aren't going to talk about that experience. Let's just leave it at that
After having an orderly and a nurse bring a wheelchair out to car and help him inside (whic was a total blessing. They will never know how much), we got to sit in the lobby for awhile.
Here is the problem with the internet: it allows you to google things like this. When you would much rather be watching this:
and arguing about its veracity. (You're welcome.)
Let me be honest. I love my husband, more than I can possibly express. And I wish I could tell you that I was the strong, supportive one whose shoulders are broad enough to carry the world. But after several hours, the anxiety occasioned by the circumstances of the previous day (a story for another day), combined with the exhaustion and stress of this situation, caused me to feel violently and almost uncontrollably ill. And my sweet, long-suffering husband, seeing that I was exhausted and miserable, and that the women's rest room had been occupado (and locked) for at least two hours, sent me home. And I barely made it home before I spent the next hour being incredibly grateful that I clean my bathrooms.
"Oh Mister Potty... you're so shiny... and cold. I love you, Mister Potty."
There were several hours of fitful sleep, waking up to imagined and real text messaged updates from the hubs. Then there was the waking up two hours before work to call the pertinent relatives (I love you, pertinent relatives!) to pass on the message, and give instructions for further passing on. And my hair looked like this:
Oh, the wonderful, sweet, "and then!"
They decided his spinal cord wasn't being compressed, gave him a shot of steroids (and some really strong narcotic pain reliever that required anti-nausea drugs and made him very happy), and told me I could take him home. He is now upstairs, sleeping, while a dear friend of ours is taking his prescriptions to the pharmacy (and bringing me a Starbucks Soy Pumpkin Spice Chai, oh rapture!). There are other friends coming over to help me put my house back together (from the whole window-installation thing). And right now, I just feel incredibly blessed.
This story doesn't have much a moral. Always, the reminder to keep trusting, because our Heavenly Father always provides for us. And the grateful, blessed feeling of having so many people who love us, who prayed for and with us, and who will laugh (because they know me and how crazy I am) when they think of me running around like a crazy chicken.
At 2:30 am.
But I swear, Minion, if you start "singing" again tonight, I am locking you in the