My husband was checking out the underneath of our car one day a couple of years ago. Don't ask me why. Men make up excuses for why they need to see the underneath of a car. This is one of the mysteries of life.
So, for whatever reason, there he was, peering at some imaginary problem, when he decided he'd seen enough and that it was time to get up. That doesn't sound like an unreasonably bad decision, but apparently, the universe thought that he hadn't spent enough time looking under the car so a ligament tore in his pelvic region and sent him back to the ground a little faster than he would've liked. In fact, he dropped like a boulder.
Now that he had the universe's blessing and all the time in the world to look under the car, he couldn't do anything but lie there in agony wondering how in the world he was going to get up and walk to the house.
I studied his dilemma and concluded that there was no way I was going to be able to help him up. Fortunately, we have two offspring who were bigger than both of us and they were able to move his body from the ground to a sofa.
Over the past two years, because of the area the ligament was in, the tear would heal, then rip again, heal again, then rip again, many times. Each time he reinjured it, the healing time would take longer and longer.
We used to take walks in the evening and hikes on the weekend, but now we forgo any activity that might put a strain on that torn ligament.
Because we are pretty creative people and the situation is getting worse, not better, we have begun to think of some Plan B's.
We thought maybe a walking stick or a cane would help take the pressure off that leg. Since the TV show "House" had recently made canes cool, my husband thought it wouldn't compromise his manhood too much to use one, but he had conditions.
The cane had to be useful for more than just walking in order to make him want to accessorize with it. He wanted what amounted to a Swiss Army cane. One which, at a touch of a secret button, he could make anything from a toothpick to a machete pop out of his cane at any time. Some other useful cane tools might include a sword, a hacksaw, a fire poker, hedge trimmers and possibly a screw off cap that contained a dose of "medicinal" whiskey.
His physical therapist gave him stretching exercises to do and a friend asked him if he knows Yoga. Being a Star Wars fan, my husband misinterpreted and said he didn't know Yoda and he didn't need to. He only needed to know Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. But, he conceded, the Force might be a handy thing to have.
Becoming an alcoholic would not help the situation, I know. So if he ever gets his Swiss Army cane, I will be replacing his "medicinal" whiskey with grape Koolaid.
I had a brainstorm that might help us resume our evening walks. Brainstorms for me, however, are more like dust storms, only smaller. I thought maybe we could get him a pair of roller skates and I could simply pull him around with me.
He refused, though. He doesn't want me to pull him around and, he reasoned, there is no practical way to attach jet engines to a pair of roller skates. Jet engines are too big.
Maybe it's time for Plan C.
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