So here's the turn for the crazy my life took last Sunday. We were all enjoying our afternoon naps , when my husband Max burst into the bedroom where I was sleeping and yells, "where's the first aid kit? Payton hit his head!" He's holding a rather calm looking 18 month old boy. "In the kids bathroom, like always." So I drag my self out of bed and go to help out. While I'm cuddling 18 month old Payton, the picture of serenity, I think, well, I don't see any blood. How bad can it be? Then he turned his head. On the back of it was an inch-long gaping gash. "Max, I don't think butterfly closures and band-aids are going to cut it." So off to the ER, where after an interminable wait, the doctor, three nurses and I roll Payton up in a sheet and hold him down, while the doctor staples his head shut.
If that isn't enough for one week, Tuesday night, Max comes home from football practice with an icepack on his hand. In response to my curiosity, he shows me a grotesquely swollen hand. Next day, back to the ER. The hand has a lovely spiral fracture, and as of Friday, a very expensive titanium plate holding the 5th metacarpal together. Since it's his right hand, and since he installs flooring, and we adults don't have insurance, this is not the best thing. But the hospital has a program that will help with most of the expenses. Still kind of sucks. He should be able to work, though. He'll get a cast at the end of this week.
I had a day once where I started by getting off work and changing a flat tire, and ending with going home from the hospital where my father had a clogged artery unblocked. (The two events are not unconnected.)
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