“I might have broken something.”

I get this text as I’m walking out the door to pick Joel up from work. Joel works in a warehouse. Ladders, heavy duty equipment, large appliances, sharp things. My first thought is “thank God we have insurance” followed immediately by a mental image of spending a long night in the ER. Because the fact that we don’t have socialized medicine makes our emergency rooms super fast and efficient (not!).

Now the hope thought crossed my mind that he could be talking about a piece of equipment or merchandise. But why would he have phrased the text that way then? He had to know it would scare me. Plus, wouldn’t it be obvious if he had broken, say, a tv? So I went immediately back to panicking.

At this point I’m already out the door, phone and puppy in hand, desperately waiting for a response to my: “Broke something in the store or on your body?” text. I brought the puppy because I figured if we were going to be out all night in the ER she should get the chance to go potty first.

By the time I get out of the building and in the grass, hurriedly begging Phoebe to “Go potty, please!”, I’ve sent another text, or two.

How can he not have responded yet?!

Oh my god, this must mean he’s hurt. Otherwise my kind, thoughtful husband would never leave me worried and hanging like this. I start to picture what may have happened. Did he fall off something? Did something fall on him? Is it just a break or is he bleeding too? He was ok enough to text me so at least he’s conscious. But what if he’s not now and that’s why he hasn’t responded?

Good grief Dog, of course you pick now to poop! I pick it up as fast as possible and literally run to the dumpster. I try to open the lid and throw it in but fail and drop the bag on the ground. While bending over to pick it up, I may have gotten my scarf in dumpster juice. *gag*

Finally I get in the car. At this point it’s been 20 minutes. Ok more like two. But my imagination is still going and I’ve worked myself nearly into tears. Maybe we can sue the store, err, get workman’s comp.

The windows are foggy but I’m not waiting. I have a hurt husband waiting for me and if I run you over on my way to get him well, better take down my license plate number. Our neighbor, out walking her dog, may or may not have had to jump out of my way. Uh, sorry.


A text!

He’s conscious thank God!

“No. Lol. I may have broken the back dock door ramp thing.”


I’m crying over a damn door?

Now I’m mad.

Well, he may not have broken a bone but when I get done with him… we may be making a trip to the ER after all.