Broken Wings Mean Different Things....

This post has had to rest in my mind for a day or so in order to not have it appear as if I am whining about caring for my dear husband, who is exiting Day Four of post-pothole-accident aftermath.

Darn, though, this caregiving thing is difficult. We have three unique personalities involved in this accident, and I've come to learn a lot about how we do (or don't) react to a family emergency. Fortunately, Wolf's understanding of the whole thing is rather limited, and we purposefully left it thus, since he's fortunately not here to witness the daily mockery of our family routine.

On the humorous side, Yukon is rather entertaining in his narcotic-fueled state. Excited about such things as the hospital chapstick and the supply of kleenex next to his bed downstairs in the family room, he has constantly provided laughs to the steady stream of friends who have come to provide comfort in his time of need. Really, though, I'm starting to think they are showing up just to hear what he says next.

Physically, though, it's tough. I've never known Yukon to be injured or sick to the point of incapacitation. He can't put on socks, wash his face, or even get up without assistance. He doesn't like it, I don't like it, and Bear certainly doesn't.

Yukon, I'm also discovering, does not like pain (well duh, who does); but not any pain. After an excruciating experience in the hospital while being x-rayed, Yukon has a framework of the Pain Scale that no one should have to go through, and he wants it stopped. Like, now. Like, "Honey, it's been 3.25 hours since my last pain pill, and if you give it to me know I'll be good to go by 3.50 hours." Oy. Since the pain is quite regular and thus pain medicine must be administered on the dot.0, moi must also be around at the appointed time to untwist the bottle's cap. Poor Yukon.

Bear is trying to figure out a reasonable sort of understanding as to what has happened to his Hero. It took until last night for him to allow Yukon to read him a bedtime story because he was afraid of the enormous dressing on his daddy's arm. He desperately wants the Yukon he knew Wednesday morning, not the Yukon who came home Wednesday night, and is trying so hard to help in his little-boy way.

I'm learning a lot about my family this week; how we respond to hurt, how we interact with each other, how we see each other in a time of our most extreme weakness. It's strangely comforting and uncomfortable. I wouldn't ever want to do it again, but then, I don't think we would know each other in such an intimate way had Yukon's accident not happened.