Friday.
I had spent the day at Middle Daughter’s house while she worked so that someone would be there in case Flori, who was two days past ankle surgery, needed anything. (I was also there so that if Gordita, Flori’s puppy, needed to go out, or needed cleaned up after her frequent potty accidents, or needed shushed so that Flori could sleep, someone would be there to ride herd)!
The day wasn’t hard, but it was long, and for some reason, this 71 year old grammy was dragging. Mid afternoon, two of Flori’f family showed up with pizza, and I came home for a brief interlude, then went back. Certain Man had been working hard all day, and he was picking up sticks in the yard, running the lawn roller over some of the uneven places, and doing all manner of things that are imperative to his peace of mind in the spring. I noted that he was walking slower than usual, and I worried.
MIddle Daughter got home around 4:45 and another of Flori’s uncles showed up with a McDonald’s meal. Then Eldest Daughter and Beloved Son in Law#1 showed up about the same time, and I was feeling a little unnecessary.
“I’m going to go home,” I announced around 5:15. “I’m really tired, and I don’t think I’m needed here anymore.” There was some general discussion about that, and then it was decided that I should “take two slices of pizza home to Grandpa” (Flori’s insistence) since he had probably not had much to eat all day.
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The day was waning, as were the last of my energy reserves. I loaded up my minivan, and headed out, down the road and around the corner, and just as I came to our chicken house lane (but too late to turn in) I saw CM in the yard, still picking up sticks. I pulled into the yard beside the road and he walked over to the minivan. He opened the passenger’s side door and slid into the seat beside me.
“Hey, Sweetheart! I have pizza for you! Are you almost done?”
“Just about,” he sighed, and I noticed the way he sat on the seat, and knew that he was almost too tired to go on.
“Why don’t I come help you finish up?” I said.
“No!” he said, “I don’t have that much to finish up. You go on in.” But then he sat there and we talked a good 15 minutes about everything else. I was convinced that he was sitting long because he was so tired, and several times I mentioned that I should just help him. Every time, he objected. “No! I’m almost done. I really don’t need any help!” And at the final offer he said, “I will be fine. Go ahead and take the Pizza in and I will be in pretty soon.”
For some reason, it felt like his instruction lacked authority, so I turned the minivan around, parked it on the chicken house lane and went to help him. There was some mumbling about “I said I didn’t need any help, mumble grumble, I said that you should just go up to the house, grumble, grumble,” but he did not actually order me to go, so I went about picking up the sticks in my little corner of the yard in the space between the road and his trailer.
I did think about the fact that I was exceedingly weary, and that if felt like those crazy sticks felt unusually heavy, but I was starting to limber up a bit, and I was glad to be helping. Not five minutes into my good deed, I came up to the trailer, and I honestly do not know what happened, but suddenly I was on the ground, smashing my face into the soft ground, knocking my glasses askew, and something was really hurting on my cheekbone.
I was in full view of the road, and Certain Man wasn’t saying anything, so I figured he hadn’t seen the show, so I hurriedly got up on my hands and knees. About then I heard a very surprised voice saying, “Hon!!! Where–? What in the world??? Did you fall???” (“No, my dear husband, I’m just crawling around down here for the fun of it!”) I got myself up in a big hurry because we have a very busy road, and I was only about 20 feet off the shoulder and I was hoping no one was looking.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have another shiner,” I said to Certain Man. I gingerly felt the offended cheekbone and felt the familiar egg rising. “I think I will go and get some ice on this.”
“I think you had better,” said CM. “It’s already bruising.” I walked over to where I had landed and there was a softball size indention in the ground where my face had hit. And I’ve been pondering this ever since. Why is it that whenever I trip, my face lands first? Everyone who knows me knows that what sticks out most is my tummy. Why can’t I just land on that and be done with it? But, no! The old face has to plant in whatever happens to be there, and then all the evidence of my klutziness is out there for everyone to comment on. “What did the other fellow look like?” “I didn’t know football tryouts were starting yet!” “What did Daniel do to you?” And the one that I hate most from every professional person I encounter, “Do you feel safe at home?”
I was so grateful that nothing else was damaged, though, and it got to be a little bit funny when I thought about it. But then, last night, lying in bed, I had to cough and was uncomfortable in my mid region. “Oh, boy!” I thought. “I probably have something really wrong with me. Probably pancreatic cancer or something.” My mind was going in all sorts of directions when I suddenly thought about the fact that I had taken a tumble and I had hit my tummy pretty significantly. “H-m-m-m-m,” I reassessed. “I believe I did hit something besides just my face.
And I went straight to sleep without anymore concern.
Yesterday was a ladies luncheon. Last evening we had dinner guests. Today was potluck at church. I’ve had to repeat the story over and over again. I’m tired of telling it. (Except it is kinda fun to see people’s reaction when I tell them, “This is what happens when you don’t listen to your husband.” Certain Man seems to like me to say that, too. 🙂 In any case, this is an attempt to inform the general public what happened. You may laugh if you wish. I certainly have (in between feeling sorry for myself)!
And there is still much to be grateful for, and I am, I am!
Delaware Grammy 