By the time you read this, it will have been six weeks since a fin on my surfboard punched a whole in my thigh, coming precariously close to the femoral artery and pretty much making April a blur of doctor’s visits, stumbles on crutches and trying to figure out how to pull medical tape off of legs that are hairier than a clan of grizzly bears.
As I can see the end of this long episode now that I’m off of crutches, on to physical therapy, and finally able to look at my leg without spitting out words that my 2-year-old daughter is surely storing away to reuse at school there are some thanks than I need to share that haven’t been shared enough.
People often come up to ask how I’ve been, how I’m doing, and to tell me how sorry they are to hear that, well, essentially my stupidity finally caught up with me. They say it much nicer, and with much more sincerity. I’m always appreciative, and it’s nice that people care.
But the thanks goes to the person who really deserves most of the credit. The person who had no say in this whole matter. I injured myself, and I had to suffer through it. Maybe one day they will invent the equivalent of carbon credits for injuries where you can pay someone else to trudge through it for you. Until then, you make the mistake, you pay the price.
The same could not be said for my wife. She didn’t ask for this. She wasn’t out in the water that day. She didn’t have a choice. But she’s been there since the very beginning, standing by me all along, literally since this first happened. My wife is a tough one. For six weeks it seems my leg has been leaking all manner of bodily fluids, most of which I haven’t even wanted to be around, but she’s been there the whole time. Through the crankiness, through the doctors’ visits, and as my personal chauffeur. It’s not easy being my chauffeur as I’m critical, expect near disaster at any moment, and armchair-quarterback everything from proper techniques for switching on turning signals to pointing out red traffic lights that we’ve already stopped at.
For six weeks, my wife has had two children, often dropping one off at pre-school, then swinging around to drop off her second child at work. I’m not sure which is easier, the 2-year-old or me.
When I was stuck on the couch, she dutifully responded to endless requests for glasses of water, Wall Street Journals, cookies, ear-scratches, remote control-locating expeditions, spilled water clean-ups and all manner of other unusual requests. The strangest request I made? “Honey, can you buy me some corn dogs? I could really go for some corn dogs.”
She’s done it all. She’s managed a toddler, a dog and a grumpy, gimpy husband. She’s kept us all alive. She’s kept us all from killing each other. She’s kept us fed and clothed. She’s bathed us sometimes all at once and kept us all sane. She’s played mediator when she needed to, and bandaged us up when negotiations failed.
She hasn’t complained. She’s listened to me tell my story countless times. And she’s only moderately hurt me when I’ve suggested to people that I’m sure I will go surfing again. Someone mentioned at a party that they heard she put a moratorium on surfing for me. “A moratorium?” I said. “No. See, a moratorium implies that at some point there will be an end. This is more of a lifetime ban.”
She’s been great, she’s been wonderful, and she’s been by me the whole time. After six weeks, she needs a vacation. Unfortunately, all I have to give right now is my thanks in a newspaper column. But, honey, clip it out, put it on the fridge and if I survive physical therapy, this is your coupon for a big “IOU” in the future.