So I’m doing a new series on the villains we all know and love, right? I was all set to write this treatise, this masterpiece on the Gremlins—it was going to change the world FOREVER. But my wife drugged me. It’s a funny little story actually.
A couple weeks ago, I moved around the corner from where I live. In the course of moving, we all expect a few bangs and bruises here and there—you’re moving all your shit, right? The heavy stuff, the bulky stuff, the Why Are We Keeping This Shit? stuff. Things happen. There are always casualties in any move: something gets bent or broken or lost and it’s usually something marginally insignificant like a plate or that ugly wedding gift or a small child. Something you wouldn’t necessarily miss. This time it was me.
Let me set the stage: it was a dark and stormy night and the wind was howling through the streets like forlorn wolves—ok fine, it was a clear a relatively balmy evening here in the great Northwest. I had my trusty U-Haul and a not-so trusty neighbor and we were moving some items ahead of the Big Move. In this case, we were moving half a sectional. Now U-Hauls come with a handy-dandy ramp thing that makes moving heavy objects from the back of the truck to the ground exponentially easier. I’ve found they are especially helpful when you step ON them. I found that out the hard way.
Well, half of me did. Sectional in hand, I stepped forward with my left foot. Everything’s gravy. Go to step with the right and…nothing. Nothing. Dead air. I even held up the Wile E Coyote “YIPE” sign before I came down. Hard. Didn’t fall; just stepped down like 4 feet by accident. Knee wasn’t happy but everything seemed ok. Just a twinge. I kept moving literally.
Later that night, the wife of said Not-So-Trusty neighbor comes over talking about “I heard you got hurt.” Well, I’m still in my Wrangler cowboy, “I’m alright” mode. I shrug it off. Now this couple is kinda New Age-y. They have some interesting beliefs, do some interesting things—whatever. To each his own, right? Well, your girl does this quantum medical time-travel thing where (and I’m not joking) she acts like a human tricorder, waves her hands in front of my knee, makes some interesting beeping sounds and “resets my parameters” to a couple of hours before I got hurt. She’s essentially telling my body to act like it did before I stepped off the truck. That look you have on your face right now—yeah, I had it too. But this chick is serious.
And, surprise, surprise, ineffective.
Anyway, I keep it moving. Get up the next day for the Big Move and, with the help of a More Trusty neighbor, got all my stuff around the corner and in its rightful place. My knee aches but I chalk it up to moving the heaviest shit on earth up 3 flights of stairs so The Boy doesn’t sleep on the floor. I take a bath, some Aleve, and call it.
But the pain doesn’t stop. I go out of town, present at a conference where I’m on my feet for 2 days and I’m noticing that taking stairs is becoming increasingly more painful. Maybe I did do something. Shit. Go to the doctor, get some x-rays, a beautiful knee brace and a referral to see an orthopedic specialist. Oh yeah, and some painkillers. Wonderful. Go see the ortho who, during his exam, jams his thumb right where my stuff is hurting! He almost got slapped. His words, “You gotta get an MRI so we can make sure you didn’t tear up anything else. When you hyperextended your knee, you probably fractured the [INSERT MEDICAL TERM HERE] floor. Meniscus tear too.” I don’t even know what it means but it sounds like I’m going to be spending the night on WebMD.
He asks me about pain. I still have some cowboy left: “I’m ok—I mean it hurts but only when I do stuff. Is the painkillers supposed to take the pain away? I still feel the pain; I just get all cloudy in my head.”
“Take two,” the man says.
Which brings me to last night. My wife won’t let me move unless I have to pee, she scrounged up crutches (I thought we got rid of those?) and, as I am typing last night’s post, gives me two. I have no idea what happened after that. I found these pictures on Facebook this morning:
Gremlins are coming (I promise!)…provided I can remember what I was going to say…
First, I told you a week ago to rest… second crutches came from the more trusty neighbors wife…third I only gave you one and a HALF not 2 you’d never wake up if I gave you 2 and our life insurance needs increased first. J/K ~ Your Loving Wife
Fourth… I am not your “trust neighbor” I am FAMILY dammit. 🙂 We love you. Now do what your wife (and doctor) says and stay off that knee and take your pain killers. And we will feed you cookies and ice cream and when you’re healed, you can do 3 hours of P90X a day to get rid of the weight you lost laying around like a lazy man all day watchin’ your stories on TV. Ha ha.
I have learned that the commentary is honestly the best part of this process. Yes T, you are more than “Trusted Neighbor”–you are other mom, nurse, pharamacy (you know you are), Walmart-In-My-Garage, friend, confident, chaffeur, and, one more particularly awesome morning, Fantastic Breakfast Maker (hint hint). I am trying to milk this injury just so P90X stays hidden in my garage. Until 2014. And leave me alone: my stories are GOOD!
Shhh…the whole world doesn’t have to know I was drooling on myself after 1 1/2 pills. I have a rep to maintain!