On Friday Scott played hockey. An ordinary occurrence to be sure but the poor man hobbled through our front door. Mr. High Pain Threshold was in agony. Why? He got checked against the boards at his lower back, mashing one of his discs so hard that he pinched a nerve. He tells me he can't feel his left leg from the knee down. Poor guy. He'll take a few steps, hunker down hands on knees and release a stream of curses so profane that it would humiliate a drunken sailor. Hey, but at least it's educational for the children. It's like having a Tourette's afflicted hunchback in the house. Poor guy.
My poor loving husband thinks he's 18 when he's on the ice. One of his favourite things to say after a game is some variation of "so-and-so said I was fast/good/amazing/unstoppable out there". Unfortunately his body is nearly 46 years old. I worry that he's doing too much.
So now he's had 2 days off work, appointments with our gp, physio and chiropractor, countless ice packs and $200 worth of drugs. Poor guy.