After three months in ugly-shag hell, my husband and I found a wonderful house way out in the
We purchased the house and set up the dates and times to do the paperwork and move in. Unbeknownst to me at the time the arrangements were being made, my dearest, kind, caring husband set up the move-in date for the day before he was to leave for a month on an army maneuver... in California. This probably would have been all right had we also hired some movers and a truck, but using “saving money” as an excuse, David decided that we could be self sufficient this go-round. The day before David’s departure, he kindly got a friend to help him move all the “large” furniture to the house, and set it in a large pile in the middle of the living room. That was it. He was concerned about tiring himself out prior to his army adventure, and did not want to over-do himself, poor baby!
Now I’ve always been the strong, self sufficient type, and even at this time I was unwilling to admit that I’d been over-loaded. I stubbornly moved forward, never complaining to my lawfully wedded Bozo-Head that he’d shafted me. Oddly enough, I felt that if I did, I would somehow be admitting a weakness that would make me less attractive to him. Blond moment
Along with many boxes of books, clothes, dishes, knick-knacks and other items for the house, I was also responsible for moving 17 panels of metal pipe fencing that would be used to complete the broken barbed wire fence around the perimeter of the property. This was rather important before the horses could be turned out in our property. Each panel was 10 feet long by 5 feet high and weighed approximately 100 lbs. each. They had come with the house but had been left down in a wash-out area that was inaccessible to motorized vehicles. The closest I could get my truck was about 30 feet from the wash-out.
One by one I started moving the panels, slinging them over my back and walking sideways through the brush, up the embankment to my truck. At the pace I was going I realized I wouldn’t get the horses out of the barn before my husband got home. In a stroke of brilliance I started moving two at a time, and then three at a time. At 5’0” of height, I’ve always taken pride in my strength. I was really proud of myself when I was able to hoist 300 pounds of metal pipe on to my back and get it up a hill and into the back of my truck. Perhaps this wasn't the most intelligent thing I've ever done, but without my faux pas, I'd have less to write about.
I could practically hear an imaginary crowd of impressed and loving husbands cheering me on as I got the work done before nightfall. Everything on my body hurt, but I was strong, and I knew I’d be fine in the morning. I got the horses turned out and finished the evening by loosing consciousness almost immediately after collapsing into the water bed I had erected myself that morning.
I awoke the next morning and WHOAH! Stupid me, but I had unknowingly made the mistake of trying to move. There was definitely something very wrong. I could not move any part of my body without pain shooting through my back like a flaming bullet. I had no phone service yet, and no one to call even if I had. At the time, personal cell phones were almost unheard of and there was no true internet (not that we owned a computer, anyway). I was a million miles from nowhere (well, maybe 50 miles) and I was very, very stuck! I started to imagine my dried-up carcass being discovered by authorities the following month after my husband finally realized he hadn’t heard from me.
S-l-o-w-l-y I edged one leg to the side of the water bed. After about 20 minutes I had my knee bent over the side and I was gritting my teeth against the pain. Another 20 minutes and I had swiveled myself around enough to get my other foot over the edge. An hour went by and I was s-l-o-w-l-y moving my body to an erect position. With every movement, my breath stuck upon some knife seemingly wedged under my left shoulder blade. My only thought was that somehow I HAD to get myself to a hospital so I didn’t die panty-less and alone in my ugly night shirt.
Upon the success of the ginger removal of my body from its potential water-bed grave, I came to the gloomy realization that I now needed to figure out a way to get afore-mentioned panty-less butt into some sweat pants. The sweat pants took another 30 minutes, and then I had to conjure upon a creative way to get my heap of aching bones down the stairs.
Three hours after I awoke that fateful morning, I finally sitting delicately on the seat of my pick-up truck and driving down eight miles of gravel road on my way to the hospital. I can not tell you in words how driving down a gravel road feels on a back that’s already on fire. Not in words I want to have published, anyway.
I arrived at the
I held my keys out in front of me as I slowly shuffled up to the receptionist.
“I need someone to help me out a bit. My truck is illegally…”
“We don’t offer valet parking, ma’am.” She informed me, gruffly.
At that point the flood gates opened. In broken sentences I attempted to tell her through my tears that I’d hurt my back and I couldn’t make the walk up from the nearest parking place. A passing doctor must have overheard and suddenly there was a flurry of activity around me. I was pushed gently into a wheel chair and taken directly back to a room. I can honestly say that in all my years as an army wife, that day I was given the fastest and best service I’d ever had at any army hospital!
Within an hour a doctor was tending to me. X-rays were taken and the conclusion was ominous. I had torn and separated a large mass of muscle around and under my left shoulder-blade. If this wasn’t bad enough, the muscles on the other side that were still attached were also injured and contracted, pulling everything that remained intact out of alignment. I was informed that I was to be admitted immediately, and might have to stay in some sort of traction for up to six weeks! Holy cow! Holy Horse! I had abandon my horses in a pasture miles from the nearest civilization and couldn’t recall if I’d given them enough water to survive the next day, let alone the next six weeks.
“I’m sorry. I’d love to stay, but I simply can’t right now.” I told the doctor politely. “My husband is at the desert training center for the next month in
“Ma’am, I don’t think you understand. You’re hurt pretty badly and we’re not supposed to let you leave the hospital. We will have to have your husband sent home.”
After giving all the necessary information to the hospital staff, and worrying about how mad my husband would be at me, I finagled my way out of the hospital to just “feed and water my horses and dogs before returning.” I had strict orders to be back to the hospital by that night, and was warned that I left at my own risk.
As luck would have it, my phones had been connected in my absence. I got home and s-l-o-w-l-y fed my critters. I got back into the house just in time to receive a call form my dearest, caring husband all the way from
“What’s going on that you needed me to be pulled out to call you?” He inquired in an angry manner.
“I’m sorry.” I said quickly. “I seem to have hurt my back…”
“Do you realize what being sent home right now would mean for my career?” His tone was growing angrier by the word. “If I can’t complete this rotation, I might as well just forget about everything I’ve worked for in the last two years! Now I’m supposed to come home because you pulled a muscle or something?”
“I…”
“Whatever!” He practically shouted. “So what’s the real deal? Do you really need me to come home and ruin my career, or is this some sort of attention thing? I can not believe you had them call me here!”
“I guess I’ll be ok…” I stammered. I was a good girl and certainly did not want to be the cause of such a career ending move as he described. “I’ll be fine…”
“Great.” He said flatly. “Maybe if you REALLY need help, you can get the Jamesons to come help you once a day.”
“It’s 50 miles…”
“I’ll give you the number.”
Happy to have me out of his career’s way, my loving husband told me he loved me, and that he’d see me in a month. I now held the number in my hand for another army couple that lived 50 miles away, but had some knowledge of horses. All I had to do was pick up the phone and explain how stupid I was to some people I barely knew, and ask them to drive a 100 mile round trip to feed my horses so I could lay on my couch doing nothing when I was supposed to be unpacking the house. Great. Just yippee-kiaye great! I would savor every moment of this phone call. After the tears of frustration and loneliness passed, I gathered my courage up enough to call the Jamesons. I was happy to have some help, and having the neither courage nor heart to ask for more, I bravely told them I was sure that three or four days of help would be just wonderful!
Needless to say, I did not return to the hospital. I kept as still as I could on my couch for a few very lonely days. The T.V. got one station which I had no choice but to watch as I could not hold up a book for more than a few seconds. I made my own meals and shuffled down to the barn to tend the horses as best I could. I was miserable, yet proud that I could be such a martyr for my dear, loving husband.
What did I expect form my stoic actions? I expected to be praised at length when my husband got home for being so strong and good natured about everything. I expected to be held in the highest regard for my sacrifices. I expected that my husband would love me more and treat me better for being so understanding and supportive of his career. Did any of that happen?
Rolling on the floor laughing out loud! What happened is my husband realized he had an easy target. He found out that if he treated me poorly and with disrespect, there would be no ramifications for his actions. He learned that I expected to be treated poorly and I would not fight back. If I did put up any fight, I would back down quickly to keep the peace. I’m sorry to say it took quite a few years before I developed any senses to come to. Being a martyr is back-breaking work.
As I write this chapter of my life twelve years after the fact, I still feel the burning ache under my left shoulder blade that never quite healed itself. Looking back with 20/20 hindsight, I know now how that phone conversation should have been different.
“What’s going on that you needed me to be pulled out to call you?”
“You made the choice to leave me here by myself to finish moving heavy objects, and now I need lengthy medical attention. If you’re not at this house in the next 24 hours to help me, I won’t be here when you do get back. If your career is more important than our marriage and my health, you don’t need me to stick around longer than that, anyway. Do I make myself understood?”
I rather doubt he would have left me miserable and alone after that. I suppose it took a back injury and a lot of years for me to "grow a spine" but at least I have one now... albeit a slightly crooked one.
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