I pulled in the driveway Wednesday evening and there was my husband heading toward the barn. He was doing some slow, pathetic, Igor-like shuffle. (right foot step, left foot drag) As I approached him from the back he did a gradual full-body turn to face me. I was half expecting to see both of his arms dangling limply in front of him, but I wasn't that lucky. Igor said that he had hurt his back while hauling off the trash.
Once the animals were fed and we had returned to the house, he lost his ability to move without screaming like a little girl, which caused the dog to worry. He needed help to sit. He needed help to stand. He needed snacks. He needed the TV remote. He needed the phone. He needed a pillow. He needed something to drink. I needed something to DRINK!!! Life is never easy for me when Igor suffers an injury.
Thursday morning I left him propped up on one end of the couch, with the phone, remote and a cup of coffee, all within easy reach. I rushed off to squeeze in an hour and a half of work before returning to take him to the doctor. Unfortunately, patients is not at all a virtue that I possess. We were already going to be late for the appointment and it was taking forever and a day to get him loaded into the truck. I used every bit of restraint that I could muster to refrain from cramming him the rest of the way into the seat in order to slam the door! During our five mile commute every bump in the road was met with either whimpering, or some high pitched, not-of-this-Earth sound. It just seems weird when a big, deep-voiced man suddenly sings soprano.
When we entered the doctors office I felt my irritation steadily rise as the receptionist, who has always been unfriendly and short with me, suddenly become bubbly and chatty when Igor shuffled through the door. I managed to smile and chat along with her, only because it was satisfying to visualize my fist connecting with her mouth. It was also amusing to imagine the look on her face if she only knew how many octaves Igor's voice could climb.
A shot in the back and some high-powered pain medication seemed to provide a miraculous recovery that night, but Friday morning brought more shuffling and more shrieking. It is now Saturday morning, he says that he thinks his back is getting worse, and I have begun eating his pain pills. Why do I keep picturing him hopping up from the couch, sprinting to the refrigerator and (upon hearing my key unlocking the door) resuming the Igoresque stance?
The day after the injury was sustained, I asked him if he was he was tossing one of the really heavy bags of trash into the dumpster and twisted his back as he did so. No. That wasn't what happened. He got hurt while gathering the bag from the bathroom wastebasket....... Think I'll indulge in another pain killer!
