He'd Been Teasing Me For Riding My Brakes
I'm not saying he deserved it, my kamikaze husband--just that now he might understand what it is I'm hoping to avoid with my bit-o-more caution. I mean, we have kids for crying out loud. And I'm not that slow. I've actually gotten so much better in my two years of mountain biking that I stay about three minutes behind him.
But I wasn't thinking these thoughts when I came over a hill and saw him lying at the bottom of the next one, akimbo and still. Somehow, I was certain he wasn't dead, but I also knew it wasn't good. Turned out, he'd gone over a jump and his shoe had come out of the clip. He racked himself brutally when his tire hit the ground, and then flew off the bike, injuring his legs, back, and neck to add insult.
It took a while to help him to his feet. He couldn't walk. For all we knew right then, I had a new wife, but, by god, every time another rider cruised by and asked if he was ok--if we needed assistance--he was "fine." I begged him to let me call for the "cart," the four-wheeler they haul the losers out on, but he wouldn't hear of it. So he used the bike as a walker to hobble and shuffle the half mile or so--over rocky, rooty, rolling terrain--to the end of the trail.
A couple of times, his knees buckled, or he'd have to stop and slide his hand down his pants to check for blood. Before long, some of the initial witnesses to the aftermath were looping us, seeing just how "fine" he was, and asking for the second time if he needed help. He was bloody, his shorts were ripped, and he was walking like an old man with a load in his Depends--I didn't see how being wheeled out in the cart could have been more humiliating.
We did make it back to the car, though, and he refused to go to the hospital. He said all he needed was a long hot bath. He got that, but I had to help him out of it. I also had to put his drawers on him, and, while he was able to sit on the bed by himself, I had to pick his legs up and put them in the bed. Big shocker, then, this morning, when waves of nausea inspired him to call the doctor--who told him to head to the ER.
Evidently, the little ultrasound tech wasn't accustomed to scanning testicles. I'm sure it's quite the change from pregnant bellies or the occasional gall bladder. In any event, she didn't warm the gel (Ha! Welcome to my world.) and made him do all the heavy lifting. He also had a pelvic x-ray, which wasn't as much fun to hear about.
He was discharged six hours after his arrival, with a diagnosis of "deep bruising of the groin," a prescription for percocet, and instructions to keep the boys at home for a couple of days. Now he's upstairs with an ice pack in his panties.