Back in the spring I got a comment that took me aback, from someone who had been reading here for a long time. It was one of those moments that highlights how little people on the internet actually know each other. I suppose there are still big surprises for people who know one another in the real world, but it's easier to put up a front online.
It left me feeling self-conscious. I kept blogging regularly up until my birthday, because I had said I would, and then I found I didn't really want to write here very often. But: (a) I miss it. (b) It's silly to give too much weight to an internet acquaintance's random opinions about my life. (c) I forget things if I don't record them here. So here we go.
I am pretty sure that at some point in the future I will say to my husband, "When did we go to the ER?" If you are looking for an answer to that question, Future Jamie, it is Saturday, September 30 29, 2018. Elwood tried to catch Stella as she wobbled on her bike. He lost his balance and dislocated his right middle finger. He said it didn't hurt too much but he seemed traumatized: a little off-balance, eyes unfocused. It was conspicuous enough that I asked Stella if she was VERY SURE he hadn't hit his head. We got in the car and he started pouring sweat, even though it was pleasantly cool here on Saturday. Urgent care sent us immediately to the ER, where we spent much less time than I thought we would.
My husband and I have different ideas about how injured people should conduct themselves. In my view, a person who almost falls over in his kitchen should not plan to walk a half-mile home. ("I'll be fine!" he insisted, but I drove him home anyway.) Also in my view, a person who makes his living crunching numbers should not attempt to translate these skills into crunching knuckles; he should not take it upon himself to reduce his own dislocation. He was a little annoyed when the nurse practitioner needed about 5 seconds to pop the finger back into place. "I should have tried harder," said Elwood. "I needed more force." "No," I told him with a certain emphasis, "you needed more licensure."
I have instructed him that the only situation in which he is invited to relocate something I've dislocated is a post-zombie apocalypse scenario. Let us hope we never have to assess his subluxation management skills.
On Saturday before the ER trip I threw up a quick post about a new project I'm taking on for my parish, and then a painful case of blogger's regret hit me in the ER waiting room. Elwood read the post after I took it down and pronounced it "totally innocuous," but to my eye it had an unpleasant overtone of BEHOLD MY RIGHTNESS. The upshot was this: if you might be interested in reading more of my faith-related writing at another site, and if we know each other a little bit through the internet or real life, leave me a comment or shoot me an email. (If you already commented on the other post, no need to do so again here. Unless you just want to. I love comments, almost all the time.)