I’m staying with my mom for 25 days to help her out while my dad’s away. Got that? I’m here to help her. Well, . . .
Thursday evening I reached for a tin at the very back of her very top shelf. I could almost get it. I thought, “Should I get the stool that is one step away? Nah. One good stretch should do it.” That’s when I heard the POP from somewhere in the vicinity of my left shoulder-blade, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe.
The children were tired and wanting to settle for bed. I had just put the kettle on and it was beginning to sing. I actually said, “Oh great googly moogly” when I got my breath back, because I didn’t know what to do.
My mom stepped in. She handled my kids. She took the kettle off the stove. She got warming rub for my back and made sure I was looked after. She prayed. I couldn’t have handled the evening without her, and on her way to bed she gave me pretty strict instructions about what I wasn’t going to be doing on Friday to let myself recover.
Right now it hurts to type, so there might be a slow down here at the blog for a day or two, but I thought you should know that my mom’s looking after me well while I’m here “helping” her out.
And the tin I was reaching for? In a painful irony, it ended up being empty.