The doctor called my injury “the bed incident,” which sounds far more titillating than it was.
What happened is I pinched a nerve as I was rolling over in the middle of the night. I haven’t been able to turn my head for a few days. Or bend over. Or pick up my 21-pound linebacker son.
All of this has made my husband, Charles, very unhappy. He was supposed to go away with some friends for a long weekend. The funny thing is (well, I think it’s funny anyway), the last time he was supposed to go away with the boys I came down with a terrible cold.
All day he’s been on the phone.
“This is twice now. Twice!” When he hangs up, he looks at me like I’m one of those people who’s trying to scam the government out of workmans comp.
If Charles was the kind of man who didn’t get out of the house often I might feel bad. But I don’t. He enjoys an active social life while I, on the other hand, break out the girl’s night jeans once every few months. It’s my choice—he encourages me to go out—but most times I’m too dang tired.
So here we are. He’s had to use two vacation days—ones he set aside to roam and romp—to watch his son while his wife lies in bed pleasantly doped up on muscle relaxers, snuggled up to the heating pad. When I feel like it, I nap. Or take long leisurely showers. If Junior cries, I go and stand sympathetically over the crib while Charles hoists him up and carries him away.
I know I didn’t plan this. But I’d like to say a little thank you to whichever nerve it was in my neck that has given me the most relaxing two days of my life. It’s almost a Hallmark card.