As a dancer I was taught that there are no wrong answers. As the wife of a nursing student I was taught that there are only wrong answers (at least I think that was the point of the last three years). I assumed in his query that my husband was testing my knowledge of critical care and trauma procedures (because he does this for fun every now and then to prove that in the area of medical care not having to do with infants named Hannah and Noah, he is in fact smarter than me). After a moment's consideration I replied, "I would find someone on the field with a phone (our base coach is the most likely candidate) and have them dial 911. Then, I would assess the victim, checking vitals starting with bleeding, pulse, and breathing." I described what I would do if the sustainer of head trauma was bleeding, if they were unconscious with no pulse or respiration, or if they were conscious and alert x3. Justin agreed with my order of priorities, and we discussed whether it would be better to move the victim into a seated position or leave them laying flat, addressing the possible effects of each option. (Let me tell you that it is riveting to live our little lives. Our children are going to know how to properly wrap a laceration, but not know how to achieve a laceration in the pursuit of childishness... which sounds like a good thing, but I see as somewhat sad.)
Fast forward forty-five minutes. I jogged out onto the field for the start of the second inning. My husband usually plays short stop, and I am usually at second. If you are not overly familiar with base/softball playage: playing at second you actually stand back toward the grass and closer to first base. This gives you a better opportunity to get anything hit to the right side of the field, while leaving enough time to get back to the bag for a play. My point in offering this vital softball strategy education is to point out that I was standing quite a distance from my husband at short. I would have had to shout to get his attention.
Although for the purpose of attention-getting he uses other methods entirely...
I mentioned in my last post that my husband is sometimes still a thirteen-year-old boy. In my experience most guys are at various times in their adult life just kids. This is usually an endearing quality of his. I find it cute that he likes baseball, airplanes, candy, and bodily noises. I find it hilarious when his adult male mind reverts to making "pinning" jokes.
But, some things are less endearing than others...
He throws rocks at me. Junior high was not so long ago that I have forgotten that this is how boys flirt. I've taken my share of abuse in the name of 'crush'. But here's the thing: once you've got the girl, you can call off the aerial strike.
He always does this. He finds little pebbles or dirt clods and lobs them off to one side of me, just to see how long it takes me to notice. At softball games I am always just trying to impress him and make him proud. I get very focused. I ignore things like thirst and sun and projectiles. Ironic, isn't it? The very act by which I want to earn my husband's approval causes me to fail to notice his desperate plea for attention.
During this particular moment, I was shifting my weight back and forth from foot to foot waiting for my father-in-law to pitch. What followed depends entirely on the perspective of reality you choose to believe.
From my perspective:
[I stared down the approaching batter. I glowered. There are so few opportunities in life to properly glower, that I was taking the most of it. I must have looked quite fierce, like a kitten attacking a laser pointer. My eyes narrowed in concentration, my toes dug into the dirt, my...
OUCH! What the crap was that?! Did I just get shot? I think someone shot me! Check the grassy knoll! (My hand flew up to my forehead to check for the almost certain gush of blood flowing down.) Looking up wildly to see if any further sniper shots were coming, I saw my husband...
The man I have stood by for seven years. The man whose children I bore, birthed, and raised. The man on whom my hopes of the last three years of grief and trouble rested, the protector of my family, the provider for our needs, the calmer of our fears. The man I committed to for better or worse.
The man who had just rocketed a boulder into my forehead.
He came jogging over as my face crumpled into my hands. "Are you okay?" he asked covered in concern and guilt (but still chuckling at the odds of making that shot - which helped matters immensely).
"Fine!" I nearly screamed.
"Are you sure, I'm sorry, I...."
"FINE!" I roared. "I.Am.Fine. But you need to go over there." I gestured madly at the shortstop position. He tried to continue speaking. But I kept pointing and growling, "Go over there!" ... Where I can't reach your throat with my nails. Where I can't scream at you in the tongues of men and angels. Where I can't start the first fight of our marriage over something so ridiculously stupid, but still downright infuriating! GO!
Another player jogged past and asked what just happened, "He hit me with a rock!" I shrieked.
Honestly, I wasn't that angry at him. I knew it was a mistake; I was 99% sure he would never purposely try to stone me. It was shock. The unnatural volume, the seething, the green I was turning and the sudden need for stretchy purple pants; it was all shock.
The pain was minimal. The lump was mortifying. I can't go to church like this! They give me grief enough for my shoes! Maybe I can get a haircut with bangs. Maybe I can run away to New Zealand. Maybe I can never ever leave the house again as long as I live. I suppose I should cut my husband some slack; at times, I am still a thirteen-year-old girl.
My primary consolation was, although I had forgiven him the second I looked up into those remorseful blue eyes, everyone else we knew would give him grief for weeks. Because I am a paradox: simultaneously merciful and malicious.]
His perspective: (and yes, I understand that it is not fair for me to be relaying his perspective, but I am only quoting from the story he had to relay 800 times after the incident.)
[You know when you are just messing around and it goes terribly, terribly wrong? I was throwing pebbles at her. I do this all the time. I picked up one and it was really flat, like you would skip across a river. Flat cylindrical objects tend to curve in flight. I threw it a good three feet out in front of her, and watched. Hmmm. That rock is turning. It's heading for my wife. No way.
Oh crap! I just hit my wife with a rock! Good thing we talked about this on the way here.
... What are the odds? That must have been a one in a million shot. That's pretty impressive.
... Do you think she's mad?]
We were on a roll. We took a marriage class, and the leader told a story about a couple who had been married for sixty-two years. At the husband's funeral, the wife laid her hand on the casket and whispered, "62 years and he never hurt me."
That was the goal.
Now, it will have to run: "75 years (we ain't quitters), and he never hurt me." Pause. "Except that time he hit me with a rock."
I love you, my un-matchable husband. And yes, it was a one in a million shot. Go you.
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