A diverse collage of paramedics stream into the house, through the living room, and into the bedroom to attend to my husband. Although partially clothed, with blood still oozing from his leg, my husband is attempting to joke with the EMTS about his stupid accident.
My brain in a dither, I can’t be in that room right now. I ask if it’s okay for me to walk the dog, who hasn’t been let outside for a pee in six hours, and they give me the go ahead.
I return less that ten minutes later, only to see the ambulance zooming off into the night, my husband on board. Thankfully they’d left the front door wide open, so we were able to get back inside.
Was it weird that I didn’t freak out about rushing after the ambulance? That, instead, I focused on spraying hydrogen peroxide over the garage “crime scene” blood until white, cloudlike masses consumed the lead-smelling rust?
Not so much. The EMTs had left a note that they were taking my husband to the nearby med center, not the hospital. I phoned instead. I’ve endured many a late night hospital trip with hubby, and I sensed this wasn’t that. Besides, I knew he was in good hands. At this moment, the only thing I COULD control was removing the blood so everything would be NORMAL when I brought him back home.
A couple hours later, stitches sewn, and antibiotics administered, we pulled into the driveway.
“Pull into the garage,” he said.
“Yeah, not gonna happen,” I said.
Although I’d managed to erase, in record time, all blood from carpet, utility room, and garage, my heart knew the emotional fall-out would take much longer to disappear.