Exposure & Slamming Doors

Exposure

The asthma has suddenly become very bitchy. I don't even want to say how many times I used the albuterol. It's depressing.

Today is the inauguration of 4mg. May it go well.

Of course, the universe, the nasty ho bag that she is, sent me a student yesterday suffering an acute infection of some kind.

Featuring a fever of 104 F.

My student's parents have incentivized the hell out of getting good grades. So much so that my student dragged their sorry ass to tutoring.

Except, when your brain is on fire, you can't really absorb things like fractions.

Also, HELLO. If your throat is too sore to talk, I can't do much with you. (And Good Lord stop looking for an app that will talk for you on your iphone.There are no apps in tutoring.)

So I had to cut the session short.

Meaning I was exposed to all those germs for no good reason.

Humph.

Let the record show that I am wearing my Spongebob Shiny Optimism pants (that squeak!) and chanting a silent mantra of "I will not get sick, I will not get sick."

(P.S. Lucky for you those pants are invisible.)

Slamming Doors

The hubby recently did a number on himself.

He managed to slam his finger in the van door. Hard.

Why, I don't know. He can't quite figure out how he was stupid enough to stick his hand in the door as it was slamming home.

He was in so much pain, he couldn't stand still, on the verge of tears. I have never seen him in that much pain before. This is the guy who walked on a seriously broken ankle that narrowly missed needing surgery and bought him 6 weeks of disability. The guy I had to bully into getting surgery for an avulsion fraction of his finger so he could still pick his nose if he so chose and retain the ability to use power tools without accommodation.

This is also the guy for whom pain triggers an impressive anger response with a side of irrational logic.

In fact we had a screaming match about ice packs. Me trying to get him one, him insisting he wanted to go to bed.

Then we had a screaming match about how, no, you can't go to bed until we look at your hand.

We really don't yell at each other,we're a pretty copacetic couple, so this was pretty unusual. I was very glad the toddler was asleep, she would've been traumatized by the vigorous conversation at the top of our lungs.

The relative staying with us, who does not speak English, and whose worldview is warped like that of Kim Jon Il unless they are pretty heavily sedated, was freaking out. I dread how they will represent the whole thing to the rest of the hubby's family (I never come out looking good in the gossip and have not yet evolved to where I don't care).

By virtue of the hubby's high pain tolerance and the fact it was not able to save him this time, I made him go get an x-ray the next day at an urgent care center (because he has no primary care doctor because he doesn't go to the doctor).

No fractures.

Impressive considering he has an actual dent in his finger. Just looking at it makes me wince in sympathy. The new rule at our house for the hubby is now, if it hurts, you're fine, if it doesn't hurt, you need surgery/disability.

And based on the anger that pain elicits, I am very glad he is so healthy. As it stands, he is going to have a heart attack in his dotage and try to smack the snot out of the EMTs as a result.

Please accept my apologies in advance.