Saturday was windy. We opened the door to let in the breeze.
I wasn't surprised that two papers from the cork board fluttered to the ground. I picked them up.
I forgot to look for the tack that had been holding them up until it was too late.
Clunk, clunk, clunk (my bare feet against the cork floor). Yow!
Now, I'm not usually queasy about medical emergencies. (Well, besides the time my father-in-law removed a cyst from my husband's earlobe and I almost passed out. That's another story entirely.) But there was something about seeing that thumbtack embedded in the ball of my foot that made me want to puke.
I hopped around, trying to get a good hold on it to pull it out. My husband sat at the table staring at the laptop. I kept saying, "Help me, help me," and couldn't figure out why he didn't move.
Isn't it amazing how when we're in pain or panic, any sense of time we might've had flies out the window? It probably took less than ten seconds for me to pop that thumb tack out. Not really long enough for anything I was doing or saying to make sense to my poor husband who happened to be engrossed in some completely harmless Saturday morning entertainment: fantasy baseball scores. One minute he was reading about Ichiro's batting average,the next he was hearing an unspecified cry for help from a melodramatic spouse hopping around on one foot.
What's a guy supposed to do?
After removing the tack, I limped into the bathroom and sat on the floor with my face in the toilet, doing my Lamaze breathing because I was positive I was going to vomit.
Strange how something so incredibly insignificant could effect me so much.
I didn't lose my breakfast. Thankfully. I flushed the toilet and listened to the water gurgle. Then Aaron came in to make sure I was all right. Good man. He sat by me, rubbing my arm, until I felt well enough to hobble out into the front room to get a Band-aid.
Today he and I rendezvoused at the health center to get tetanus shots. He needed one too because he sliced open his finger on a cat food can.
Some days this rigmarole is our romance: sharing injuries that involve metal objects penetrating the skin; being a physical presence when someone's contemplating puking; going to the health clinic to get tetanus shots together (I'd call that a date!).
That's companionship. That's what every woman wants -- minus the thumb tack in her foot.