easier to just smile and wait for things to change.
Later that night, I tucked Sid into his travel crib before collapsing on the teal bedspread I knew would be fuchsia by Christmas.
Jason rubbed my back, encouraging me to stay positive about the trip. He listed all of our favorite dive sites on the island and talked about how thrilled he was to test out his new scuba gear. I knew full well he’d probably end up impulse-buying some other shit he’d never use as soon as he wandered into the next dive shop.
For all my mixed feelings about my mother, I too was grateful to be in such a beautiful place, even if my bed didn’t have a canopy.
I knew something was wrong when Sid started crying around 3 a.m. and I couldn’t stand up to get him.
“Baby,” I said to Jason, who was sound asleep next to me. “I can’t put pressure on my leg. Something is wrong.”
Jason flipped on the matching teal bedside lamp. “What do you mean?”
“I honestly don’t know. It’s too swollen to walk on.”
Jason told me to stay put while he went to check on Sid. When he came back, Sid was in his arms with a hungry smirk on his face. He smacked his lips and latched onto me without opening his eyes. Jason, meanwhile, bent my leg up and down like a physical therapist.
“Does this hurt?”
“No,” I said.
“How about this?” he asked, tapping on my patella.
“It’s only when I stand,” I explained tearily.
Jason waited for Sid to finish feeding, then changed his diaper and placed him back in his crib. Watching Sid float away in Jason’s arms while I sat glued to the bed, I felt powerless and incompetent and like a human gas pump.
I woke up earlier than usual the next morning because of the time change. To my surprise, Sid and Jason were both still sleeping. I tested my leg and, sensing that it hadn’t improved, I rolled off the bed and crawled on my hands and knees along the marble floor toward the bathroom.
Before I could get there, my mom stopped me.
“Chop? What are you doing?” She had a cup of coffee in one hand and Rocky in the other.
“My leg is really fucked up. I seriously can’t walk on it.”
My mom cocked her head at me like someone looking at a Sudoku puzzle for the first time.
“How are you gonna dive with one leg? I guess we can just throw you in and strap your tanks on once you’re in the water.”
Though I might have preferred a little concern, I had to admire her ability to make the best of a situation. She was always telling me to “buck up,” to “get over it.” When I was sick or injured as a child, she always found ways to keep the party going. She created portable ice headbands for dental work, started at-home IVs for menstrual cramps, and was never without a full prescription of Percocet. In some ways, the fact that my mom was a nurse was amazingly convenient. And in other ways, it was really fucking annoying. Having a parent in the medical field means never really getting any sympathy unless you’re dying of AIDS . “Oh, your stomach hurts? Well, at least you aren’t dying of AIDS .” “You pulled a muscle in your groin? That sucks. But you know what sucks more? AIDS .” This isn’t to excuse her lack of empathy, but there is a certain desensitization that comes with seeing real illness on a daily basis. By comparison, my ailments were minor.
From my spot on the floor I heard Sid crying. Jason woke up to a half-empty bed, hyperventilating.
“Everything okay? Baby? Baby?” he called out, like he’d just dreamed I was mowed down by a school bus.
It didn’t surprise me that I’d married a man who was the exact opposite of cavalier when it came to injuries. Jason was an overreactor of the highest degree. Not only was his threshold for pain low, but he was an actor. On countless occasions, he would take what I’d consider a small event and heighten it to a full-blown catastrophe. When he stubbed his toe, he’d start screaming like he was being sodomized with a hot
Later that night, I tucked Sid into his travel crib before collapsing on the teal bedspread I knew would be fuchsia by Christmas.
Jason rubbed my back, encouraging me to stay positive about the trip. He listed all of our favorite dive sites on the island and talked about how thrilled he was to test out his new scuba gear. I knew full well he’d probably end up impulse-buying some other shit he’d never use as soon as he wandered into the next dive shop.
For all my mixed feelings about my mother, I too was grateful to be in such a beautiful place, even if my bed didn’t have a canopy.
I knew something was wrong when Sid started crying around 3 a.m. and I couldn’t stand up to get him.
“Baby,” I said to Jason, who was sound asleep next to me. “I can’t put pressure on my leg. Something is wrong.”
Jason flipped on the matching teal bedside lamp. “What do you mean?”
“I honestly don’t know. It’s too swollen to walk on.”
Jason told me to stay put while he went to check on Sid. When he came back, Sid was in his arms with a hungry smirk on his face. He smacked his lips and latched onto me without opening his eyes. Jason, meanwhile, bent my leg up and down like a physical therapist.
“Does this hurt?”
“No,” I said.
“How about this?” he asked, tapping on my patella.
“It’s only when I stand,” I explained tearily.
Jason waited for Sid to finish feeding, then changed his diaper and placed him back in his crib. Watching Sid float away in Jason’s arms while I sat glued to the bed, I felt powerless and incompetent and like a human gas pump.
I woke up earlier than usual the next morning because of the time change. To my surprise, Sid and Jason were both still sleeping. I tested my leg and, sensing that it hadn’t improved, I rolled off the bed and crawled on my hands and knees along the marble floor toward the bathroom.
Before I could get there, my mom stopped me.
“Chop? What are you doing?” She had a cup of coffee in one hand and Rocky in the other.
“My leg is really fucked up. I seriously can’t walk on it.”
My mom cocked her head at me like someone looking at a Sudoku puzzle for the first time.
“How are you gonna dive with one leg? I guess we can just throw you in and strap your tanks on once you’re in the water.”
Though I might have preferred a little concern, I had to admire her ability to make the best of a situation. She was always telling me to “buck up,” to “get over it.” When I was sick or injured as a child, she always found ways to keep the party going. She created portable ice headbands for dental work, started at-home IVs for menstrual cramps, and was never without a full prescription of Percocet. In some ways, the fact that my mom was a nurse was amazingly convenient. And in other ways, it was really fucking annoying. Having a parent in the medical field means never really getting any sympathy unless you’re dying of AIDS . “Oh, your stomach hurts? Well, at least you aren’t dying of AIDS .” “You pulled a muscle in your groin? That sucks. But you know what sucks more? AIDS .” This isn’t to excuse her lack of empathy, but there is a certain desensitization that comes with seeing real illness on a daily basis. By comparison, my ailments were minor.
From my spot on the floor I heard Sid crying. Jason woke up to a half-empty bed, hyperventilating.
“Everything okay? Baby? Baby?” he called out, like he’d just dreamed I was mowed down by a school bus.
It didn’t surprise me that I’d married a man who was the exact opposite of cavalier when it came to injuries. Jason was an overreactor of the highest degree. Not only was his threshold for pain low, but he was an actor. On countless occasions, he would take what I’d consider a small event and heighten it to a full-blown catastrophe. When he stubbed his toe, he’d start screaming like he was being sodomized with a hot
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