A "Twisted" Fate

Saturday morning, my husband and my son woke up early to go paintballing in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of their buddies.  I have a theory on this whole paintballing thing.  I think that the men secretly just love to act like Rambo, and shoot at each other like a bunch of soldiers in combat, but they bring along all of their sons so that it seems more legitmate.  Goofing around is more acceptable if  "it's for the sake of the children".

They put on multiple layers of clothing under their camouflage to lessen the sting of the blows, and then they pelt each other with paintballs while hiding behind trees, rocks, and bushes.  They pick teams like friends playing ball in the sandlot, and then they choose the game they'll play.  Boys from ages 4 to 64 play together side-by-side, strategizing and executing their game plan.  It makes for great father/son bonding, and tight camaraderie between the men.  My guys come home and recount the blow-by-blow details to us girls every time they go.  They get that far away look in their eye as they reveal their paintball battle scar welts, and tell the heroic tales of how they got ambushed in a firefight with one man against ten.  It brings out the true grit  in the males when they go head to head in paintball combat, and they strut a little taller the next day.  I've even heard them all relive their glory days over cinnamon rolls and coffee at church on Sunday morning.  It makes me giggle every time.  Boys NEVER grow up....and that's OK with me!

Yesterday during paintballing, I received an unexpected call from my husband, telling me a wild story that was almost unbelievable.

  It was the end of the last battle.  The game was Capture the Flag.  My heroic husband was sacrificing his body to make a run for the flag without cover.  He was getting pelted in the hiney at point blank range, but he managed a death defying maneuver to snatch up the flag.  He then made a beeline for the base like a gazelle being pursued by a lion.  "Chariots of Fire" was playing in the background as he sprinted like the wind.  He zigged.  He zagged. Then, just as he was winning... he did a valiant tuck and roll for the victory, but he went down for the count with a twisted ankle.  His teammates yelled, "Man down, Man down!!!" but it was too late.  The damage was done.  The game.....was over. He made the ultimate sacrifice for his men.  His ankle was the size of a softball, and he lay there in agony.  He gave all he had to give. 

At least that's the way my husband tells the story.  I added in a few details for dramatic purposes, but absolutely nothing to detract from the truth. ;)

Anyway, after they all sat around staring at it for a few minutes, they put their heads together to determine what to do with the ankle. Between their Boy Scout experience, First Responder Training, and high level of problem solving skills, you would think they would have used some twigs, the ointment of a rare medicinal plant, and the leaves from a riparian area to splint the ankle and administer first aid to the patient, but alas, they did not.  They did the next best thing.  One of the guys phoned a lifeline.... his wife.... who happens to be an excellent nurse.  She calmly took control of the situation over the phone, and gave detailed instructions on how to handle the "incident".

Here's what the doctored ankle looked like when he got home.  Not pretty, but it did the job. I'm certain the nurse would have done it better, but she can't be everywhere at once to rescue men in distress.

I was frustrated because later that night, we were going to go on a date to a fancy benefit dinner with a band and real "dancing".  So much for a twirl around the dance floor.

To add insult to injury, my husband played up the sprain to avoid his regular household responsibilities...namely, letting the cat out at 3:15 am when she scratches at the carpet in our bedroom. 

(Before I continue, you need some background information that will be pertinent to the story in a minute.)

 Hank the Cowdog has a trusty sidekick named Drover.  Drover is a sweet little chicken hearted dog with a stub tail that hates confrontation. Every single time Hank has a plan to go into battle, Drover starts dragging one of his back legs and says, "Oh Hank! My leg! I don't think I'm going to be able to go on this mission with you because this darned ole' leg is giving me fits."  Then Hank has to go solo to save the day, while Drover takes a nap on his gunny sack bed.

Back to the story:

We get home late from the big benefit dinner.

It's 3:19 am when the cat starts to scratch.  Naturally, I ignore it. 

She scratches more. 

Feeling  "not so much" Proverbs 31 womanish, and "very much" like a grizzly bear in hibernation, I nudge my husband, and whine, "Can you let the cat out?"

After all, I really needed my beauty sleep.  I was in deep R.E.M.  when the cat scratched.

Then out of the darkness of the room, I hear the following words:

"Oh Hank! My leg! My leg!"

I couldn't believe he was pulling a "Drover" on me at 3:23am.  I was forced to go out into the cold dark world and let the cat out.  It was an all-time low.

He was really milking this injury for all it's worth!

OK.

In all seriousness, it DOES look ugly, and I've been doing my best to pamper him until he's back to normal.

This little injury will just be one more battle scar to talk about  with his buddies for weeks to come.