Drum and a fife

Old bodies and old minds give way to interesting days and nights.  Very early Sunday morning, before the dawn was breaking, I awoke to a spinning room, although my body was not.  I screamed, as sure as my neighbors within a half mile radius will attest to.

When out of a deep sleep there arose such a clatter, Couponman threw back the covers, sprang from the bed, and shouted, “What’s the matter.”  He tore off his sleep apnea hardware.  With a foot swollen from gout, he stumbled.  It wasn’t St. Nick on the rooftop.

My concerned husband insisted I go to the doctor.  He hobbled behind me while I walked like Frankenstein, with very little movement to my upper torso and head.  All the two of us needed was a drum and a fife.

We made it to the car — barely.  He stuck the key in the ignition.  There was an unusual silence.  Nothing happened. 

Since Couponman is not allowed to lift or move anything heavy for three more weeks since surgery to implant a defibrillator in his chest, I stoically and very vertically pushed the car out of the garage, while he guided it in neutral.  We looked like two wounded thugs trying to hot wire a getaway car.

Returning home, having been diagnosed with fluid behind my eardrum, I lay stationary all day, while Couponman limped and fulfilled my every need.  Okay, let’s just say I didn’t go hungry.

P.S.  Yes, I am feeling better, just in case you were wondering.