For old jocks, sports injuries may be the only ones worth having.
I’ve never broken a bone unless you count a toe now and then, while Dearly Beloved has had a litany of broken bones, sprains, strains, and tears, mostly from playing football and baseball. Since all of my injuries happen inside the house when I don’t seem to be doing anything important like tackling a tight end, how bad could it be? (I do tackle loose ends now and then.)
I admit to being the Queen of Weird when it comes to injuries. Here are a few instances, not even counting the time my interuterine birth control device accidentally attached itself to my uterus, requiring surgery for removal and thus landed said event in a medical journal, complete with photos. My uterus…so much more than a homing device.
Case No. 1: While painting the laundry room I stepped on the dryer in order to reach the wall behind the cabinets above the machines. The dryer turned over with me. . . on me. . . and shoved me into the door jamb. I think the doctor suspected spousal abuse as “attacked by a dryer” was new to her.
Case No. 2: I was writing late one night when I heard a noise. I jumped up to investigate and as I did the pencil dropped onto the shag carpet and for just a millesecond it stood suspended, point up. Unfortunately, that was the same millesecond I stepped toward that spot–and the upright pencil punctured my foot. I called the emergency room and asked would I die during the night if I had a piece of lead in my foot. They said I should make it through the night all right and that such would have been a very difficult feat to perform, so perhaps it was simply a puncture wound. The next morning my leg and foot were swollen twice normal size, hurt like hell, and I had to have surgery for being a leadfoot.
Case #3: I was making meatloaf and was hurrying to get it in the oven because I had to go to the bathroom. I was putting a large glass measuring cup in an upper cabinet and didn’t get it pushed firmly onto the shelf. As it fell, I reached out with both hands to catch it and it shattered in my hands, cutting both of them. I couldn’t stop the bleeding so my neighbor took me to a nearby urgent care clinic physician, who sent me to the hospital emergency room. (It’s a good thing we move often; living next to me is time-consuming.) What is most memorable about that time was that it took them forever remove all the glass slivers and stitch the cuts, so I still had to pee four hours later. FINALLY the nurse put extra large surgical gloves on my hands to cover the bandages and pointed me toward the bathroom. My hands were still deadened and wouldn’t work properly, so with glove ends dangling off my useless fingers, I succeeded only in getting chunks of latex caught in the zipper teeth. Then I couldn’t get the bathroom door open. Dearly Beloved had to come to the aid of his shrieking wife. (Easy to spot–I was the one with the wet pants.)
Today, however, I may have outdone myself: I hung myself by my wedding band.
The glass shelf over my bathtub stays dusty most of the time because I am a fiend with a powder puff and cornstarch baby powder. The shelf, just for decoration, is about a foot from the ceiling and is not easy to clean, so my criterion for doing that chore is simple: when I can no longer see through it, it’s time to clean it. Today was the day.
To build the scene here, realize that I am functioning with what I am sure is a raging sinus infection. Even opening my Diet Coke is an effort in my pitifully weakened condition. But. . . after I cleaned the bathroom mirror and looked up at the glass shelf and saw that it looked painted, I couldn’t ignore it. Cleaning it takes an acrobatic movement of standing on the side of the tub and leaning over and up. We have already established my athletic abilities. It is not a graceful move and there’s probably a better way but it would probably take more effort.
Feeling just a little dizzy, I grabbed hold of the shower stall with my left hand for balance as I righted myself and turned to step down. Somehow I slipped and my wedding ring caught on the lip of the top of the metal frame and I literally hung there for a second or two, suspended by the ring and the frame before I managed to free my hand. I thought the ring was going to break open and since the other option seemed to be my finger being torn off, I was willing to go with the broken ring alternative. The ring tore open my finger which began to swell so I closed my eyes and pulled the band off before it got stuck there. I need a bullet to bite on for that one as the deep cut goes across my finger, so you can probably imagine what happened, but I’d advise against it. My finger was bleeding, my hand hurt from swinging by it and my shoulder ached from slamming against the door as I dangled. My injured pride didn’t kick in until later. The stupidity factor hasn’t really taken hold.
Let me just tell you that to slice into yourself with a wedding band takes a lot of pressure. I won’t mention exactly how many pounds of thrust was involved here and such information is not required on my driver’s license, thank you. Dearly Beloved cleaned the cut for me with Betadine and bandaged it after we tried to tuck everything back down into place in hopes that it will heal properly.
“I don’t think I’m getting the proper sympathy around here, ” I told him. He shook his head and mumbled something about a lesson to be learned.
Okay, here are the lessons to be learned here, Girlfriends:
a. Orange Blossom wedding bands are very strong. That sucker didn’t even pull out of shape. My finger would have fallen off or the shower stall would have pulled free first.
b. In case of emergency, call Molly Maids. Otherwise, ignore dust.
c. Never ask an old football player for medical advice.