GRIN # 425
Jerry’s ear looks like its been mangled by Mike Tyson.
On Saturday, he and two buddies went mountain biking, and Jerry slammed into a tree, cutting his ear and whacking his collarbone, all of which he relayed to me on the phone on the way to tailgate with the same guys for the NC State game.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
“Welllll, maybe you should get it checked out. Maybe you need stitches,” I said.
It was stupid to even suggest stitches. My husband NEVER gets stitches. Hand caught in a motor? It’ll be fine. Chainsaw mishap? Brush it off.
Unless he’s in an OR and the surgeon puts them in–kind of a one-stop shopping thing–he just doesn’t do stitches. Stitches, apparently, are for wusses and babies and people who enjoy biding their time in waiting rooms.
So the next morning he’s telling me something and I really looked at him (it’s amazing how infrequently we do that) and all I could see was the bloody stump of his earlobe.
“Your ear!! My God!”
“What? I told you.”
“You’re missing, like, 25 percent of it! It looks…awful!”
“If you think that’s bad, look at my collarbone,” he said, pulling up his shirt. The area was bruised and there was an odd lump on one side. “There’s probably a break, but not a major one. I can still move my arm. I hit pretty hard. I think I blacked out for a minute.”
“WHAT?? Are you serious? What if you have a concussion?”
“What would they do, put a cast on my head?”
And, this, my friends, is where you can see the major difference between men and women. Or, more specifically, between my husband and myself.
If it had been me and my girlfriends, we’d have detoured to a freakin’ emergency room. Or at least an Urgent Care! One of us would have the task of comforting, the other would be in charge of making calls, the last person would take on logistics–food, water, directions, insurance cards etc.
Actually, let’s back that up. We wouldn’t be in the woods in the first place. On bikes.
But I’ve never had a shopping injury this bad.