As I rushed around today I recalled preparing for Victor and Kathy’s 40th birthday party four years ago. The week before the big event my back started to hurt, and within a couple days I couldn’t stand up straight. I went to the doctor, who immediately hit me in the lower back and made me wonder what I pay her for. From my reaction, which was somewhere in the XXX-rated realm of profanities, she determined I had a kidney infection. I went home with antibiotics. I knew I’d be moving a little slower but was determined not to let it interfere with my party hosting.
The next day the doctor’s office called to say they’d done further pee tests and determined I had E.Coli poisoning. I needed a much stronger type of antibiotic, and the new one completely zapped me. I slept for three days. I’d nap for a few hours until Vic would wake me to change my sheets, which were drenched in sweat, then go back to bed until he’d wake me again to change my sheets. It was a foggy time for me. I don’t think he has the fondest memories either.
Meanwhile, my saint of a mother and her best friend drove from Walla Walla and Medford to meet at my house and get it party-ready. For two days they worked their hineys off. They cleaned the whole house top-to-bottom, prepared and set out food, and threw the party in my stead. I lay in bed upstairs during the party—weak and still foggy—listened to the festivities going on without me, and cried. I’d been planning this thing for roughly two years and suddenly couldn’t attend. It was very, very sad to me.
It’s sort of became a joke how well I timed my E.Coli poisoning and got people to do all this stuff for me. If the current party preparations were following the same schedule, it’s just about time for the doctor to punch me in the kidneys. I have no lower back pain, so I’m not letting her get near me.
And yet, I should have known better than to mentally pat myself on the back for avoiding injury and illness this 40th birthday party go-round. It’s only Monday. Tonight as I was bringing some groceries in from the car, the toe of my slipper caught on the porch step and I fell. And remember, when I fall, I don’t fall a little bit. I do it big. When I fall, bones break. Arteries spurt. Passers-by point and laugh and call 9-1-1.
I left a large section of my right knee on the exposed aggregate outside my front door. The ants are probably carrying it away as I type (which is good, I guess, because it’s less for me to sweep up tomorrow). A lot of skin from my left palm is missing, too. And my chin. Yes, my chin. BECAUSE I LANDED PARTIALLY ON MY FACE.
I came in and showed my owies to Vic, who just shook his head sympathetically and humorously (you’d think that combination would be impossible, but he’s perfected it). After getting myself cleaned up, I now see that the bandage on my palm and wrist kinda looks like I’m recovering from a botched suicide attempt. Believe me, while this party is stressing me out a little, it certainly isn’t that bad. Yet.
The best news is that even though my knee is suddenly swollen to the size of Cleveland, I did not break my foot, which I tend to do frequently. And there was no loss of consciousness.
But the most painful injuries? They’re on the inside.