Wednesday, April 29, 2009
A word on yesterday: Spouse was ordered to keep still, and an electric saw roared into life, split open the plaster cast on his arm and revealed a dry, withered but much relieved limb.
I am faint of heart: I stared into this corner and that one as the doctor extracted pins from Spouse's wrist bone. I looked at the ceiling and the floor and the various wall posters, and at my shoes, which I noticed were in need of a thorough polishing.
And when it was over we made our way gingerly across the car park. A steep, grassy incline separated us from the bus stop- just the sort that Spouse likes to roll down on a blue-sky afternoon, when children are watching with open mouths and eyes as large as teacups.
For a reckless moment we considered that route- walking, that is, not rolling- but one of us might have lost our balance. Spouse is still rather one-handed, despite his farewell to the metal invaders.
There will be time enough later for rolling and tumbling down hills of grass, and for that I am glad: but glad is a weak, pale word that conveys little of how we feel. Brimming, perhaps. Brimming with the possibilities.
And my shoes still need to be polished.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 3:59 PM