Cleanliness will get you killed.



A couple of summers ago we were preparing to leave town for a beach vacation.  By prepare I mean my focused husband had scheduled our car for it's pre-trip checkup which he does even if we're just going downtown for dinner. He's thorough that way. 

That morning before work, when roosters will peck your eyes out for disturbing them, Bill asked if I would drive the van to the car checker guy and he would pick me up and drive me to work.  

I think I said, "mmfmffmmffmf"  .  I begrudgingly drug myself into the shower wishing we could just teleport ourselves to the beach and skip the whole trip part, especially if it interrupts MY SLEEP.  As I got out of the shower I thought "crap, it's cold out here" because I like the air conditioner set at dead body morgue temps in June.   So I grabbed my towel and stepped back into the shower to dry off.

Here's where things got ugly.

Death awaits.  But at least I'll be clean for the funeral.

As I stepped back in my left foot hit the wet tile and shot out from under me and I did the Fred Flintstone foot dance in slow motion. I came crashing down landing on my backside - with a sickening crunch and pop followed by a prolonged inhaling set to the most profane lyrics I could muster.  The soundtrack had an eerie similarity to the scene in Psycho .  I felt like someone had stabbed me all over.   And to make matters worse  I had apparently contracted  Tourette's syndrome.

Why is it that anyone ( read spouse here....Bill specifically) would think you'd do this intentionally? Like I thought to myself " I really don't want to drive the car in this morning so I think I'll kill myself - death by bathroom tile."  Of course I actually did have thoughts of killing someone when he asked why I fell, but it wasn't myself.

I kind of remember him jerking open the shower stall door and yelling over my screams asking if he needed to call 911, or was I dying, or was I hurt, which I thought was fairly self-explanatory seeing that I was in a pretzel position and it was NOT sex related even though I was naked and wet and heaving with deep breathing and yelling his name in a cursing fashion.  I could not even catch my breath.  Or I would have related this fact more clearly. 

He hooked his arms under my arms and slipped me out of the shower onto the bathroom floor. Not as sexy as it sounds. Still unable to convey the depth of my pain other than "shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit" which is perfectly acceptable especially if you've just contracted Tourette's.  He asked me the most important question of the day. 

"Can you still drive the car to the garage?"   No one can accuse him of losing focus on the task at hand. 

I think I used the "f" word in perfect context when I said "F _ _ _   NO" .   My English teacher would have been so proud.    Not my religion teacher,  or my minister.  My dad , maybe.  

He stood there conflicted.  911 or garage, or maybe he could drop me at the emergency room on the way.   I managed to take a deep breath asking him NOT to touch me, just let me gather my thoughts.   I thought maybe I was okay just shaken.  Except for the little problem of being shaped like a question mark.  You know .....this > ?.       I could not stand up straight.   And I was still , well, unclothed.  

I could see he was deeply concerned .....about the car and meeting a deadline of some kind and to avoid being touched I thought if he'll just go and let me assess my mangled body in peace maybe I can figure out if I need to go to the hospital.  He said "Do you need anything before I go?" to which I replied as I was standing there in the shape of a naked question mark....."Underwear would be nice" .  As he walked toward me with my underwear I implored him to just drop them on the floor where I proceeded to play a game of "pick up the undies" with my toe and will them up up up my mishapened body by shear mind power.  I was awesome.  But still in remarkable pain. And still shaped like a question mark. 

And then he left.  Because he needed to get the car checked off that "be proactive list" .  I listed to the side of the bed and leaned into it until I was now a question mark shaped lump under the duvet.  As I lay there thinking "oh crap don't die, we'll never get the deposit back on the vacation rental" , I heard a set of golf clubs coming down the hall.   Oh, oh, one of my children coming to check on me!!   No, wait, he's passing my door.  I shouted " Andrew". I'm not sure it was a shout, more like a sad moan.   Andrew opened the door and said 'What's wrong with you?" 

I see Mr. Keep on Schedule didn't bother to get one of the kids up to stare at me until he got back home.  And knowing Andrew was on his way out to help at the children's golf clinic I asked if he'd go get his sister and prop her up in the chair next to me in case I croaked or something. 

So now I'm laying there still in a question mark shape being stared at by my daughter.  Bill calls to check on me.  Yes, you've guessed that he's dropped off the car and checking to make sure I'm not dead.  Answering the phone was a good sign.   He returns and decides that I do need to see a doctor and offers to take me to.................his chiropractor.  WTF? I think I made it pretty clear I did NOT want to be touched.  But he's convinced I need something.  I'm thinking a hammer or gun perhaps, or pit bull.  But I only have an icy stare,  at the carpet.  Somehow I make it downstairs and into his car.  The mustang.  It's a standard shift.  That car has always hated me and now was it's chance to finish me off.  I was painfully aware of every bump and dip to the doctor's office.  It was horrible. 

Dr. Larry takes one look at my face ( which he had to bend over to see ) and declares much to my relief that he is not touching me.  He says this before I have to threaten him or his tile floor which is what it would have looked like from his perspective.  But he does take an x-ray.  It reveals several compression fractures which may or may not have happened in the shower.  I'm thinking "may".  But no one listens to a woman who stares at the floor mumbling obscenities.  He says there's really nothing to do until the inflammation settles down not to mention the Tourette's.    At this point my loving spouse asks " Can she still go to Florida?" , so I can stare at the sand I guess.  Dr. Larry says I might as well. No lifting, no walking through the sand to the beach, just rest and sitting.  And he suggests getting me muscle relaxers and pain killers so the trip is as comfortable as possible. 

May I just say I think I have great potential in being a drug addict.  Bill loaded me into the car and gave me pills.  I closed my eyes and was magically transported to the beach.  Also I never heard one argument in the car, I don't remember stopping for the bathroom or eating.  I think I achieved teleportation.  I sat for two weeks on a balcony facing the ocean.  I read books undisturbed.  I never put on sunscreen.  It was heaven.

Heaven.

I'm thinking of throwing myself down the stairs this year. Wish me luck.