Last night, not long after I wrote that post and lost the wine buzz, I was about to run out the door to pick up Howard from work, when the phone rang.
It was Howard. Telling me to make haste because his knee blew out and he couldn’t move it, much less stand up. I hauled ass down there and when he told me I may as well shove hot pokers in his eyes because that’s how much it hurt to try and stand up, I dialed 911.
Our normally even-tempered cashier was wide-eyed and cautious looking and I’ve honestly never seen that side of him before. At one point, I wasn’t sure what was more scary: His reaction or Howard’s injury.
Anywho.
We spent the rest of the evening with our lovely P.A. who pumped Howard full of anti-inflammatory and pain medicine. With a wounded ego and a set of crutches we finally made it home. He was so disappointed that we didn’t get to celebrate Halloween and I felt bad for being such a bitch about carving that pumpkin.
I made him a grilled cheese sandwich and some vegetable beef soup. We watched “The Legend of Boggy Creek” and got exactly two trick-or-treaters because it was so late. During the night, he would wimper if I so much as grazed it. When I offered to sleep on the couch, he would wimper even more. And my Howard is no wimperer, believe me.
This morning, I called my benefits manager, and as I was explaining our situation to her, I lost my shit. Just lost it. The next thing I know, I’m blubbering to her on the phone. Now Becky’s a good girl. She’s a GREAT girl. I consider her a friend. But we’re not to the point where we feel anywhere near comfortable crying in front of each other.
She was gracious and sympathetic and told me to take a deep breath and the crying was over before I knew it. If I could have stood outside myself for a second I would have given myself a look like “What the hell was that about?” I know Becky doesn’t judge me for it though, bless her heart.
I know the reason why I lost it but I can usually choose the moments when I know I’m going to lose it. And those moments are usually behind closed doors. And usually involve a pillow being thrown at something.
So the next few weeks are going to be hectic, filled with doctor’s appointments, and some changes that have needed to happen for a while. I am certain that I will lose my shit a few more times. I’m sure there will be pillows thrown and probably more wine than I should be legally allowed to consume.
I’m sure I’ll hear the words: “Oh stop feeling sorry for yourself, Chrissy.”, rightfully so.
And I will look at that pumpkin and tell him to go screw himself and pour myself another glass of wine.