Hello Internet! Yes, I’m back, and things are good. We’ve got Hank all set up here at home with an adjustable bed, one of those handy rolling table things, and all the rest of the goodies.
And Hank is doing great! He’s got physical therapy almost every day, and he’s keeping busy with his rocks — excuse me, mineral collection. He’s bought loads of them from all over the world, and he spends hours sorting them by type and geographic region.
Okay, so maybe I don’t totally get the rock thing. Every time I suggest calling up some of his buddies and having them over for dinner, Hank’s all, “I gotta finish organizing my South American sedimentary examples tonight.” But he’s on the mend, and if that means he’s not in the mood for company, I understand. Even if I don’t really. Am I making any sense?
So Hank’s a little cranky. After everything he’s been through, who wouldn’t be? Between the gunshot wounds, the physical therapy, and the being stuck in bed… I know he’s going through a lot right now and I’m just trying to be there for him.
Not that he’s, you know, noticed that I’m trying to be there for him. Honestly, if I walk in the room without a rock, I might as well be invisible. No, scratch that, even if I DO have a rock, I’m still invisible — all he’d see was a lump of rhodochrosite.
I’m tempted to call Hank’s doctors and have them come out and do a follow-up exam, because even though he did not suffer a single gunshot wound to the head, he has somehow magically developed the inability to see or hear his own wife, or say anything to me that isn’t some grumpy complaint about something I’ve just done.
I spend all day, every day, trying to be there for him. And who is there for me? My new best friend, Mr. Closet of Unopened Boxes of Rocks. We’re very close. We spend at least half an hour together every day, as I try to figure out where to fit yet more boxes that Hank has yet to open and organize, since there isn’t any more room for them in our bedroom.
Don’t tell Hank, but if things don’t improve, the contents of Mr. Closet and I are going to take a little day trip over to the Grand Canyon, and I will spend a happy hour or two reuniting Hank’s rock collection with the planet Earth. And if geologists are someday stumped by the presence of some New Zealand whatsit in the middle of Arizona, well, that can just be a little mystery for them to ignore their wives over.
Yes, I remember about the whole “for better or worse, in sickness and in health” business, but nobody every warns you about the possibility of endless crappy days where it seems like nothing is ever going to get better. I spend every moment afraid that Hank is never going to walk and I’m going to smell like Lysol for the rest of my life.
And yes, okay, maybe this is too much information for the Internet, but who cares? I’m stuck in this house 22 hours a day, I’m sleeping in a motorized bed and I spend all my spare time in a closet full of boxed rocks. I’m going to blog about whatever the H-E-double-hockey-sticks I want to blog about and if the Internet — or anybody else — doesn’t like it, that is just too bad!Read More