My Family Loves Me (or so they say)

My family says they love me.  (Well, except the eleven year old girl.  Oil and water.)

After breaking my leg Monday night, it was nice to sit back and let someone take care of me for a change.  Heck, it was just nice to have some attention other than, "Hey, when are you doing laundry/going to the store/cooking dinner/fixing my Ipod?"  Sure, it doesn't feel natural to sit on my ever-expanding backside and ask someone to bring me my food and drink, but I could get used to it.

But being unable to move from the sofa has left me too much time spare time to think about what actually transpired on the night I fell down the stairs.  And just when I was starting to feel loved.

I honestly don't remember "the fall" or even the moments right before.  My  memory starts here:

I'm lying face-down on the ground in too much pain to move, calling out to my seven-year-old granddaughter (the only other person in the house) to bring me the phone.  She asks if I'm okay.  (Any mother will tell you that you can't admit to your children that you aren't okay.)  "Yes", I say, "I'm okay.  Now dial 9-1-1."

I hear the coyotes howling in the background.  Wait, that's me.  Scary.  So I howl some more.  Then I think about the fact the my husband isn't home with me.  This seems to happen during many of the difficult times in my life.  That brings on an earth-shaking sobbing session.  Pity parties are my specialty.

The seven-year-old seems to be coming in and out of the room quite regularly to check on me.  "Are you sure you're okay, Nana?"  "Yes, honey, I'm fine.  Just waiting on the paramedics."  In hindsight, I realize she was running back and forth between me and her computer game.

When the paramedics arrive, they promptly ask if they can call anyone for me.  I give them my husband's cell number.  No answer.  They leave him a message.  Secretly I'm thinking, "Finally, when he gets this message he'll understand why I'm always on his case to take his cell phone with him!"  He claims he never got the message.  The fact that he didn't actually answer the call when it came in brings up a whole hornets' nest of questions, but we'll save that for another rant. Oh, the stories I could tell.

I carry my cell phone with me everywhere.  Even to church.  I put it in silent mode just in case.  I don't understand anyone with kids (or even a spouse they claim to love) who doesn't keep their phone with them and turned on any time they're away from said kids/spouse.  But that's just how I roll.

I'm not sure how long I was in the ER before my husband showed up.  But later, when I was talking to the kids about what had happened after I was taken away in the ambulance, they both recounted the story exactly the same:  They waited here with my neighbor until my husband returned, probably an hour after the drama started.  I'm not sure if he even asked where I was, or if they just volunteered that an ambulance had taken me to the hospital (no, this isn't a common occurrence--it was actually my first ambulance ride), but according to both of them in their own, separate accountings, he sighed and asked (without sounding terribly concerned or upset), "So what happened?" 

If it had been reversed, I would have been in a total panic.  But again, that's just how I roll.

Sometime on Tuesday, I asked my husband if he was given any discharge information.  I had a vague recollection of what had been said by the medical professionals before I left, and I knew they had handed him some papers.  He responded that no, they really hadn't given him anything.  Okay, let's try this another way.  I asked if he would get me the information from the pharmacy on the possible side-effects of my pain meds (reminding him that this information is always provided.) Well okay, he said, at which point he started perusing the pamphlet himself.  No, nothing really, he said, as he mumbled a few unrecognizable symptoms (only unrecognizable because they were mispronounced.)  "Thank you!", I said, none too nicely, "If you don't mind, I'll read that myself."  And sure enough, there were all the symptoms I'd been experiencing, along with some (probably important) detailed instructions for how and when to take my prescribed medications.

Again on Wednesday, wanting to know what was considered "normal" for someone in my condition (and feeling as if the pressure inside my leg was about to propel my cast across the room in small pieces), I asked my husband if he had been given any discharge instructions from the hospital. "Not really," he again said.  It wasn't until after I talked to my daughter (the nurse) later in the evening, and fearful that my leg really might explode, that I once again asked about discharge instructions.  I went into a whole spiel about how they never release you without some sort of information, no matter how insignificant (you know, lawsuits and all).  And finally, with enough prodding I get him to locate the care instructions that would have informed me that the increasing pressure and tightness I was feeling underneath my cast was reason enough get prompt medical attention (in addition to a few other tidbits that would have been nice to know).  Yes, this is how my husband rolls.

I like to believe that each person in my family loves me, even if it is sometimes a little "unique".  For the past several months, my previously sweet, loving eleven-year-old granddaughter has refused to even say goodbye to me as she leaves for school.  But since Monday, she has told me several times a day that she loves me, to which I respond, "I love you, too", and she replies, "I love you more!"  (Aaaah, sweet memories of simpler times.)  She even tells me she hopes my leg gets better (and sounds sincere).  And when she called from a friend's house last night to say when she would be home, she asked my husband to tell me that she loves me and hopes my leg is feeling better.

For that, I'd go through it all over again.

My view for a while