On Mother's Day, the Bruins were playing. Their game was at night, so the day was mine - I received wonderful, appropriately sweet and appreciative cards from my three sons, and I had breakfast in bed. Then, I lounged around with coffee, and then I watched two movies all by myself - Heaven. About 5 pm, I decided to take my three dogs for a walk - we had been walking four miles a day for a week, and I didn't want a (pretend) holiday to break our rhythm. Little did I know, the pampering should have just continued, because about 50 yards from my front door I fell into a gopher hole in the median strip between sidewalk and street, and sprawled into the road. The dogs, bewildered, (why a nap now? Didn't she nap enough during Out of Africa, or The Guilt Trip?) formed a protective circle around me (not really - they strained to keep moving, causing me to be stretched like Braveheart on the rack) while I stared at the pavement under my face and considered my options. Getting up was not a choice, as pain was making me nauseous and breathless. Finally a neighbor ran over with her cell phone - she was on a successful walk, one where no one falls - and helped me back to me feet/foot. Long story short, I made it home, dragging openly unsympathetic dogs behind me.
When I got home, my ankle swelled to baseball size, and the pain was an immense, throbbing nightmare. My husband and 14 year old got home from golfing (yes, on Mother's Day - I'm that swell of a person) and they were shocked to see my pitiful self crumpled on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on my ankle. My husband administered ice and sympathy, to no avail. The pain increased. "I might need to go get an x-ray," I said, to be met with wary, uncertain looks from the males in my household. I was puzzled - were all our car batteries dead? Had the hospital been closed in a random act of Obamacare? My son said, "Well, but....the Bruins are on."
"I know, but I'm hurt," I explained patiently, eyes rolling back in my head from pain. This was a teachable moment about priorities. My ankle now looked like a bumpy mountain range, indistinguishable as a separate bone in the swelling landscape of my foot. I looked to my husband, who smiled uncertainly. I could suddenly see into his brain: Playoff game. Bruins. TV at emergency room small. She's tough. It's a sprain. Playoff game.
Really? I said.
"Lets just try some wine; it'll relax you," he said. "Then we'll just check you out after the ice has had a chance to work." (In between periods one and two, I was guessing.) Well, wine is nice, but it's not a doctor. Two glasses later, however, I was cheering the Bruins on and smiling dreamily down at my ankle. I was okey-dokey. In fact, I was brave. I was a tough cookie. I love Bergeron. I'm sleepy!
So, two weeks later, the Bruins are still in contention, and the stakes have gotten even higher. All the men in my world are nervous wrecks during the games, which makes me want to watch, but also be busy. So, I bought some dog clippers Saturday, and for two hours on Saturday night, during the Bruins game, turned our dog Baby from this:
Go Bruins.( And go medical care!)