This weekend I decided to celebrate my boys’ joint birthdays (2 and 40, respectively) with a pair of parties. One Saturday for family, one Sunday for friends during what was to be the Steelers 7th Super Bowl victory.
Saturday was great. Party great. Everything great until a call at midnight from my husband. On the way to the emergency room. He fell. During his league curling match. Yes, that shuffleboard-on-ice Olympic sport.
He dislocated his shoulder and was pretty sure he broke his knee.
The x-rays confirmed it.
A fractured patella.
His 19th fracture.
His first in 22 years.
And a wake up call to me. The girl who desperately wants a second child. Who was briefly thinking maybe we just play the odds and try naturally.
This is too painful. For him. And me.
And if we can prevent it, I don’t ever want my child to endure what he is.
He’s on crutches and in a brace that keeps his leg completely straight. He can’t yet drive. Pick up O. Go up and down stairs. Clean up. Cook. Put on his shoe. So it all falls to me. Which I get. But I can’t tell you how exhausted I am. I’ve yet to go to work this week as O woke up in the middle of the night with a 102 degree fever. When it rains it pours, so they say…
I am trying not to freak out about him not being able to work, his upcoming surgery and whether it will fix his knee, how we will pay bills, his six weeks of recovery,
robbing a bank finding money to try IVF again, how much his accident scared me… You get the idea.
And I really am trying not to freak out about what I did to really piss off the universe.
That said, I look at my 2-year-old and am amazed by what a wonderful little man he is.
What a weekend we’ll always remember…