The theme for the last five days (and the reason for my sudden disappearance) here in Kathrynville has centered around things that are broken:
First and foremost is Taylor’s (18) broken hand. I mentioned that it might require surgery? Well, it did….sort of. Is it still considered surgery if you’re in the hospital…and have general anesthesia…but they don’t wind up cutting into you, but instead knock you out for one of two reasons:
a) The doctor’s behind on his Jaguar payments and has his eye on a 22-foot gently pre-owned yacht aptly named “Over My Head”…or
b) The kind medical staff don’t want to permanently traumatize the patient when they forcefully **SNAP!** the two bone-ends back into place…and then successfully wiggle the hand to see if they’ll magically stay pushed together…which they do, so they’re done
Whoopsie. I mean, “, so they’re done??” I’ve just realized that waaaay back in the second paragraph, I’d begun with a question. My bad. Now I shall travel further down this grammatical hell-road by answering my own question: The answer is yes.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re like, “WTF?? What is she talking about?? She’s not making any sense…and she always makes sense, dammit!”
Maybe a photo would help…they say a picture is worth a thousand words, right?
(stage whispers) CUE PHOTO!!
Okay. Say it with me now: “Awwwwwwwww!”
Hospital? Check. General anesthesia? Check. Huge, inflated doctor’s bill for services? I’m sure it’s in the mail. Loud, dramatic snapping of bones back into alignment? Check. Actual surgical procedure, involving blood and stitches and stuff?? Nope. Turns out, his bones fit back together perfectly...like salt & pepper....or hot dogs and baseball...or Sonny & Cher (before the break-up, of course).
So, on Wednesday at around dinnertime, I was informed that his procedure would take place on Thursday at 8am. Three and one half hours away. Evidently, they had to move fast or the bones would heal incorrectly…because this is what young bones do.
Connor (13) and I began to pack while I debated about whether to drive up that night, (which would require me to find a place for us to stay) or set my alarm for 4am and do the drive in the wee hours of the morning. Personally, I don’t like anything with the word “wee” in it, so I was leaning towards the former. I couldn’t seem to make up my mind. It was freakin’ awful. I waffled back and forth….back and forth. You’d think I’d been asked to make a life or death decision by the way I was agonizing. It was pathetic…and kind of scary. Finally, after calling the 5th hotel, (most were booked for the long weekend) I caught a break and we hit the road at 11pm…me armed with my extra-large bottle of seltzer and Connor with two bologna sandwiches for the ride. The drive was uneventful…I plugged in my iPod and sang enthusiastically to every single song that came on whilst Connor dozed in the passenger seat, which slowly found its way to a reclining position within the first 30 minutes of our trip. My navigation got us there flawlessly and the only bru-ha-ha came when several massive bugs committed suicide on my windshield, causing me to swerve slightly whilst cursing quietly, right in the middle of a rousing rendition of Who Says You Can’t Go Home, by Bon Jovi.
In the end, all is well. We visited, I nursed...and we drove back home. I arrived to find my router on its last leg…and by the next morning, we had no internet. That tale will have to wait for another post.
For now, I’d just like to announce that Broken Taylor (Thank you Alan for this nickname. It's a keeper!) is broken no more…at least, for now. I think he’ll be okay…some may say that the 500 feet of gauze I wrapped around him was overkill…but I think it’s Just. About. Right.