I couldn’t get to sleep for the life of me on Friday night. I usually only have trouble sleeping if something is on my mind, so I did some journaling, I wrote a to do list for the next day, I tried to meditate and failed. I texted John asking when he was getting home. I tried to sleep again. I just didn’t know what was bothering me but I couldn’t rest.
I tossed and turned and looked at the clock and it was 12:30, which is the latest John gets home from work these days. I lay in bed for a while alternating between staring at the ceiling and staring at my inner eyelids. I ponder if John’s at work drinking with his boss, or maybe cheating on me with some skank. I decided he was just at Pathmark picking up ice-cream and likely got pulled into a random convo about “down with the man” type stuff with a stranger like usual. Then I get my phone out to maybe play candy crush until my eyes hurt enough to stay closed.
Instead I see a missed call from a 908 number. (Ugh I left my phone on silent again. Grrr.) And I listen to a warbled, shakey sounding voicemail:
What the fuck?!
My breathing immediately gets shallow.
I call back the strange number that the call came from and a too perky for 1:30am voice answers: “Oh I was expecting your caaalllll, we just took your husband to the hospitaaalllll, if you call there, the doctors should be able to tell you morrrrre.”
My heart climbed right up into my neck and layed down in my throat.
I couldn’t even say thank you, I just hung up on that valley girl and got to crying.
You know when you have a million thoughts all at once, and it’s coupled with paralyzing fear, plus a knowing that you should be doing something, but since you have a million thoughts going, you can’t get started on one of those somethings?
Well, that’s what happened.
I may or may not have stood in the middle of the living room holding two phones in a death grip, petrified and confused.
Higher self took over “GO!” she said. And I snapped out of it and started spinning around trying to pack my purse. I dragged on socks and sneakers (yes, with my pajamas lol) and strapped my sleeping baby to me.
Then the phone rings. It’s a nurse. Then it’s John. His first words: “Don’t worry.”
He tells me he was on his motorcycle and got hit by a car that ran a red light (in an intersection that was blocked off by several police cars, mind you) and the bike flew, he flew, his legs jacked up, and his foot is broken.
My first thought: That’s it? Whew!
Second thought: OMG That’s not it!! He’s lying so I won’t drag the baby out of the house at 2am
Third thought: I hate that goddamned motorcycle.
He says: Don’t come down. It’s gross. The baby’s sleeping (A HA!!! I’m right!) I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Come by tomorrow, don’t come tonight.
I say: OK, how are you? I love you bla bla bla So glad you’re alive, yadda yadda…yeah yeah, goin to bed….
We get off the phone, I grab my bag and haul ass to the hospital.
I turn the corner into the emergency room area and see my big strong man lookin all weak, little and jacked up!
He’s pale (which is saying a lot), shakey and scraped up, and cut all over his arms, his legs were all scratched up too and red from thigh down. His foot was the size of Rohan’s entire body and bloody, purple and gross. His toes looked like they were trying to put up gang signs.
But that was it! *Huge exhale* Relief streamed down my body. My heart finally started crawling down from my throat back where it belongs.
His leg is busted up real good, and his foot is broken in a few places and he was clearly in pain. But that’s it! He wasn’t lying so I wouldn’t come down.
His first words: “Baby, I’m so glad you came!”
Then he got all teary eyed apologizing out the ying yang, feeling all horrible about the situation we’ll be in. I’m crying of course, worried, but still happy it’s “just” a leg/foot. But we both kinda just looked at each other and had a deep appreciation for the gift we’d been given. It was clear that he knew how lucky he was.
I stayed for a few hours with him, just talking and watching him somehow get paler and paler. Waited while doctors irrigated the wound (I totally watched and it was DISGUSTING!!! But I was rapt. I just couldn’t look away from seeing all his foot guts.) and discussed his treatment; Surgery, bed rest, then 6-8 weeks in a cast. No school. No work. The doctors kept saying how he really lucked out. They were taking him to prep for surgery so I headed home with a wide awake baby on my chest saying “what’s that? what’s that?” to everything we passed.
At home of course I couldn’t sleep but I couldn’t stop thinking about how freaking lucky John was either. I thanked all the gods I could think of. Really, in a blink of an eye he went from all healthy…. to broken foot/jacked up leg and facing 8 weeks of downtime. But it could’ve been really bad. We could’ve lost him.
Eight weeks of him being down (and likely driving me crazy at home 24/7 -fml) is nothing compared to spending the rest of my life without my bestest friend. It’s really a blessing.
I’m grateful John is okay. I’m grateful he was wearing a helmet. I’m grateful for modern medicine. I’m extra grateful that he’ll never be riding a motorcycle ever again. I’ve always hated that thing.
PS: He really was at Pathmark before the accident, picking up ice-cream and almond milk for Roey!