I sort of fell down the stairs a few months ago. I say sort of because I caught myself before gravity entirely grabbed me.
Garry said “You can’t ‘sort of’ fall down the stairs. You either fall down the stairs or you don’t fall down the stairs.”
“Well, I only fell down half the stairs. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t break anything.”
“What were you doing on the stairs?”
“I was going to get the mail. I started down, but on the second step, my ankle turned. I knew I was going to fall, but I grabbed the railing. So I only fell the first couple of steps. And I did something to my foot,” I finished. Lame. Limping.
I showed him my foot. It was swollen. The toes were sort of purplish. Not aligned in the usual way.
“It’s only my foot,” I pointed out. “It could have been my back. That would have been really bad. This is nothing. Really. Aren’t you glad I was able to grab the railing and keep from falling all the way?”
He looked like a gathering storm and was not smiling. Not even a tiny smirk. “It,” said Garry, “Is not nothing.”
Garry said if it looked bad in the next morning, I would have to see a doctor. Get an x-ray. I pointed out it’s the end of the month and we are out of money. We can’t even afford a copay, much less medication or a pair of crutches.
He said he doesn’t care. I need to see the doctor. I said I don’t think it hurts enough to be serious. He pointed out that I’m a bad judge of what “hurts enough” since I pretty much never think anything hurts enough to go to a doctor.
Do I know how to have fun or what?