Last week my wife and I took our two youngest
kids to Baja California, Mexico to expose them to the land of their father’s
heritage, participate in Dia de los
Muertos festivities and to celebrate my upcoming 50th birthday.
As a result, this year we forewent Halloween at home.
Nonetheless, our trip ended on a rather scary note, as
our 4-year-old, Olivia Luz, and I were thrown off a horse the morning of the
final day of our trip in Rosarito.
Luckily Olivia landed (on top of me) unscathed, but I
landed flat on my back. I now clearly understand what it means to “get the wind
knocked out of you,” as it took a rather long and frightful minute to get up and catch my breath. Albeit slowly, I could still walk and
seemingly had no broken bones—at most a back full of bruises, a few pulled
muscles and a black-and-blue ego.
Alas, a day after our return home, I sneezed
violently and it now appears that what may have been a hairline rib fracture is
now a broken bone, as indicated by the ensuing excruciating pain.
According to the doctors, there's nothing you can
do for a broken rib but to wait six weeks while it heals and endure the pain.
Thank God, I've got a lot of Ibuprofen and Tylenol for that.
And of course, there’s our family’s sense of
humor that will help me heal faster…or
not.
Last night I was explaining to the littlest ones,
our five-year-old Milo and Olivia, how much my injury hurts. "If I laugh,
cough, sneeze—or even burp—I get a sharp pain on my side..."
Without missing a beat, Olivia Luz looked at me,
smiling, "Or fart..."
Ugh. Of course, I laughed hysterically—and so
much, that I was crying from the pain and had to run out of the room and pour
myself a glass of bourbon.
Milo quickly caught on that I could be a great
source of amusement for the rest of the evening and tried to make me laugh at
every possible moment: from breaking out in hysterical laughter by simply looking
at me, to spontaneously making funny noises and doing a silly monkey dance in
the shower.
Despite my earnest pleas and attempts to get
angry as an attempt to control my painful glee, my pleas for mercy only made
things worse. I’d half-wretch and whisper-scream "Not funny!," which,
of course, only made it allthemore funnier.
At dinner, Olivia likewise caught the funny-fever
and looked at me mid-fork to say, "Poo-poo." My cough-cum-choke sent
me gasping for air into the kitchen.
Upon my return Milo turned to me and said,
"Knock-knock..." My only recourse was to run away again and pour
myself another.
As a result of all this, I’ve learned that certainly
“laughter may be the best medicine,” but it can also be a painful one.
