ice and compression

We had what to all appearances should have been a splendid day. Sunshine. Allergies were minimal, temporarily. A cool breeze to offset the blazing sun (summer has arrived, after a cold wet spring). Our local street painting festival, one of our favourite events of the year.

For various reasons, the day went sour. First for him, then me. The chalk festival was as inspiring as ever, but some expectations for the day were unmet for my English hubby. Other events transpired and my mood, tenuous at best these days, spiraled downward. To the point that when English hubby, at home later, said that he was going to head out for a hike on his own, my thoughts were "Just go, already!"

Moments after leaving, he collapsed back through the doorway having twisted his ankle on the way down our steps. It's a severe sprain, his ankle obscenely swollen. All evening he iced it for 20 minutes every hour, knowing that he would then suffer through excruciating cramps before his foot warmed up again. Then cringing as I wrapped it tightly until the next time a bag of frozen blueberries was called to do its work.

Sweetpea, having been shushed and shooed away while her Daddy writhed in pain, did what she does best - retreated to her room to make him a card, the drawing on which cracks him up.

English hubby spells s-h-i-t, forgetting that Sweetpea now knows how to read. She promptly writes it down and asks what it means. I alternately stifle hilarity, engage in discussion of what words are appropriate for a six year old to use, and wonder if we've overprotected her given that she's never heard it and that she calls h-a-t-e the H-word, which I also think is hilarious.

I contemplate my navel and wonder not only when lungs capable of sucking in a full capacity of oxygen will return, but when joie de vivre will knock again at my door. I recall the best advice I ever received at a time of hitting emotional rock bottom, from my father, who said "Sometimes you just have to walk it, babe." I'm walking it. I choose health and happiness. I choose. Can anyone hear me?

Our moods improve while watching toads deliberately fall from cliffs like Wile E. Coyote (oof! ouch! ack!) to escape their predators on the Discovery Channel Life series. English hubby, resting his foot on three pillows, strokes my hand. We discuss the day and although neither of us believes in fate, acknowledge that a sprained ankle diverts the attention nicely. I bring him Advil and more ice, and gather pillows and pajamas for his no doubt restless night in the guest room.

I wonder if ice and compression work on the psyche.