There was this one teensy-weensy, widddle-teeny-tiny thing I left off of last Saturday’s 11-miler recap.
Just a lil’ thang.
And really . . . it didn’t belong on that post anyway because that post was, of course, all about me. As all posts are supposed to be. Duh.
This will make a wonderful bedtime story. It goes like this:
I had just finished running 11 miles, climbed into the van, unwrapped a protein bar and headed home. (Isn’t this story exciting already?!)
When I walked in the door, two of the children were up getting snacks before breakfast. My girl told me my man was out for a quick training ride and should be back soon. My running clothes were literally dripping sweat all over the floor, so I did a quick change of clothes.
As I walked back into the kitchen to get breakfast going, my man was walking into the house with his bike.
He had blood dripping from his face. His shirt was ripped and torn in places.
Yes, I gasped. Out loud.
Then, I asked a gazillion questions.
“What happened? Are you okay? Did you call me? Did you try to call me? Why didn’t you call me? Where were you at? Did anyone help you? Are you okay?”
You get the general idea.
His arms and face were bleeding and I naturally assumed I was looking at the worst of his injuries.
He jumped . . . . okay, not really jumped . . . more like limped to the shower. That’s when I saw it.
It. Was. So. Bad. Y’all.
He looked like he had been beaten with a baseball bat.
His backside, which I quite admire, was . . . ::shiver:: I can’t even describe it.
That’s when I started to feel it. The nausea. The dark tunnel closing in. The floor began to sway.
And he needed me. He needed me to clean his wounds. To dress his wounds.
I would start to clean one of the wounds and then I would have to sit down. On the ground. With my head between my legs.
I’d wait a few seconds and say, “Okay. I’m good. I can do this.”
Then, I’d stand up and make it for another ten seconds or so before I had to sit back down.
Also, I’m pretty sure I said, “I don’t feel so good” about fifty times while he was patiently standing there. With road rash. Bleeding. Bruises slowly beginning to surface. Ooooh, the irony. ::snort::
After going back and forth with “Yes, I can do this” and “I CAN’T DO THIS!”, I decided to just go lay on the couch and yell directions at him from another room.
That’s what a loving wife does.
She yells at her injured husband and makes him clean his own wounds.
I should give lessons to young wives. This is how you care for your husbands.
The story of the accident: He was on a road he was unfamiliar with, came upon a sharp turn on a downhill portion, couldn’t slow down fast enough and flipped several times into a deep, gravel ditch. He was going about 40 mph.
Let me repeat.
He was going about 40 mph.
After straightening his handlebars and seat back out, he climbed on his bike and road the eight-ish miles home.
Thank the Lord he was not injured more seriously.
He’s healing slowly. The swelling, which was really bad, is almost completely gone. The bruising is ugly and it’s going to take a while to fade. He’s been resting since the accident, but hopes to head back out this Saturday for a short ride. I know he’s anxious to get back in the saddle.
P. S. I have since been researching local nursing programs. I think I could really make it far in that field.