I sit by the fire at my Father-in-Laws home, nursing an aching shoulder with 10 or so milligrams of hydrocodine and a couple of good wheat beers. You might ask yourself, ‘why the self-medication?’ Well, that is a funny story:

At 05:30 on recent Monday morning, the alarm was buzzing in my ear, the dog (who has abandonment issues) was sitting on me shaking because my wife left the room without him and closed the door. My lovely bride had just tripped a breaker while using the hair dryer and was yelling at me from the next room to fix it. At 05:30 in the morning I am not the happiest being in creation – add to that general condition the above mentioned details, a complete lack of coffee in my system, and a VERY recent memory of a conversation concerning NOT using the hairdryer in the bathroom swirling in my fuzzy consciousness and I might could pass the Ogre Finishing School entrance exam.

I threw on Laurel’s thigh-length hot-pink terry-cloth robe, navigated the maze of boxes in the living room and kitchen, and stomped down the steep carpeted basement stairs. I flipped the breaker, turned around, and climbed back up out of the basement. I got as far as the kitchen when she turned the hair-dryer on again and “pop” goes the breaker. I snarled and roared and headed back down – yelling in no uncertain terms for her not to do it again. Halfway down I found myself floating for a brief second. My feet slipped and in the short expanse of time before the impending hard landing, time stood still for me and I thought of three possible outcomes – each brought me to the same conclusion: “Oh fuck…” I put my hand down to keep from breaking my ass and I caught myself on a step for about ½ a second before my already thrice-surgically repaired shoulder failed me. I felt an intense burning, heard a snap and a sick-ish sucking noise. I then found myself in a lump on the basement floor, my arm cocked awkwardly like a fast-food hot wing. The pink robe was gathered above my waist, letting all my man-bits show, my wife was standing straddle of me alternately seeing if I was OK (the falling noise, my screams of anguish and the lump of me on the floor was apparently not a complete enough answer for her) and trying to discuss the nuances of our 1928 electrical system. The thought of the paramedics finding me in that state, pink robe and all, snapped me into lucidity.

The dog was also there, happy to be reunited with his “Mommy” and when I came back to reality, I found that he wass licking my foot. As I lay there, frozen with pain, I think ‘does he know I am hurt and is he trying to make it better or does he think I am going to die soon and trying to figure out what part of me will be the tastiest?’ The thoughts that go through one’s head while crumpled on the floor… I am still not sure what the answer was and I’ve lately been eyeing him with a certain suspicion.

Fast forward a few days through a couple of orthopedic visits, x-rays and an MRI, and I find that I have torn two tendons, torn a muscle, and have ripped two previously placed screws out of the bone. Someone gets to have post-operative morphine again… I will get a surgery schedule date next week, just in time for Christmas!