Life's Pot Holes: Day Two

I awoke on Monday, Memorial Day, flat on my back. I felt remotely like I had been hit by a large Mac Truck and wondered how I was able to get myself safely home from the beach, the night before. I was a little relieved to have even made it through the night, since the thought occured to me that I could have had a concussion and not known it. You know, too tough to actually go to the ER or anything like that. In pain, yes, but in need of emergency care...not so much. And I did admit, at least to myself, that my head still felt a bit woozy, even as I carefully placed my aching body under the covers that night. So when the sun came up and I was still alive, I figured that meant I was safe from dying from an aneurysm or something of that nature. The possibility of dying from pain was still a viable option.

As I tried to get up, I cried in pain. My ribs, which I was positive were broken at this point, seemed to be splitting in half as I pulled myself up. Did I need to see a doctor? Or was I tough enough to handle the pain? I had done my own investigative research on the Internet the night before and read all about the symptoms of fractured and bruised ribs. They were the same. Sharp pains in your ribs, some swelling. Okay, I had that. The treatment for both were the same as well. None. So was there a reason to go see anyone? No one could do anything about it, so icing and resting seemed to be the way to go.

The pain was bad. Right up there with my worst labor pains I recalled having right before the nurse said, "start pushing". A pain that someone would experience as a nail was being jabbed into your chest. Sharp and searing. A pain that would actually bring tears to my eyes. But I was a triathlete. I was in training. And being on the injured list was not on my agenda right now, so I was not caving in. Yet. Instead, I would head out to take the dog for a long power walk. Carefully. That would be my version of resting. No running, biking or swimming today.

Next on the agenda was to go visit my boyfriend in the hospital. He too, that very same Sunday, flew over his handle bars, landed on his head and shoulder and was now recovering in the hospital with a fractured scapula. How does that happen to two people connected in spirit but in two different places? I didn't have that answer, and knew that him being more hurt, was the only other thing keeping me from caving into my own pain. I would not let it take over me.

Driving was horrific. No matter how I sat in my seat, I couldn't stop the pain of the nail that seemed wedged under my rib cage, but kept doing my deep breathing as if in labor. My focus was him...not me. He was in the hospital and needed someone to take care of him. It was my worst fear. The thought of being in the hospital with no significant other to come to my rescue. It was so overwhelming to me at times it kept me awake and I was not going to let that happen to him.

Once in his room, I forgot all about my pains and was amazed at how great he looked. Besides the very uncomfortable-looking neck brace, he didn't look hurt at all. I mean, still had his khaki shorts on, nice blue riding shirt and looked...well, great. It was crazy. I reached for his hand and thought: Why? Why were we both flown off our bikes that day, left with wounds, but lives still in tact? Why were we saved? I stared into his eyes and wondered what the message was that surrounded this whole event. I wondered if it were a sign of some sort. Something telling us to read all the signs. Proceed with caution. And for the first time that day, I had intention of doing just that.