Through His Own Pain

Carlos (the SJA) called me this afternoon. He was returning my call from last night (I just couldn't stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I tried) and asked me what was up with me. He asked if I'd found a place & I told him I had. He asked what was up with my place in NO and I told him I hadn't heard anything. I asked him what he was doing. That's where it all began.

"I'm on my way to the doctor," he said off-handedly.

"What's wrong?" I asked in my most concerned voice.

"I twisted my ankle yesterday," he casually replied.

"Oh no!" I said, with the most emotion I could muster after 5 days of living in a hotel room in IA, stuffed from the numerous t.v. dinners I'd consumed in a fit of PMS. "So that's why I couldn't stop thinking about you," I said out loud, wishing I'd put my mouth on pause before I made the comment. "How'd you do that?" I asked, flipping channels and wondering how many more t.v. court shows would be in the programming schedule before I could find something worth watching.

"Playing basketball," he said.

"Who took you to the hospital?" I asked.

"No one," he said, "I'm on my way to one of those off hours places now to get an x-ray to make sure all of my ligaments and tendons are all right."

"Are you on crutches?" I inquired, thinking of my mother and her recent hip surgery.

"No," he plainly replied. "I've been walking on it today, so it should be okay."

"You really shouldn't be walking on it," I said, thinking more of my mother than I was of Carlos. "Did you go to work today?" I inquired, remembering that Memorial Day isn't necessarily a holiday in NO.

"No," he said as he continued to drive.

"I wish I had known," I said with genuine concern, "then I could've been there to take care of you. Maybe I should fly home tomorrow instead of Wednesday." I said it as a reflex. It was the right thing to say for a good girlfriend [oh wait! He's not my boyfriend...maybe I should take that back].

"No, no," he said, "I'll be fine. I'm on my way to the off hours place now."

As he went on talking about his injury like a 5-year old who'd scraped his knee, acting like he'd broken his leg, I allowed my mind to wander. Why do men act like it's the end of the world when they have a minor injury while women press on as they lose pints of blood in the midst of battle? It's like men become big @$$ babies when the smallest thing happens to them, but we as women are expected to be Steel Magnolias! I couldn't help but remembering 2 years ago when I seriously injured my shoulder while playing basketball with my son and ended up having surgery. Carlos acted as if I'd asked for the moon when I asked for a little help when I had limited use of my right arm (never mind that he didn't offer to help in any way). He downright said "I'll be the bad guy" and leave me at his house while he went to the French Quarter festival when two days after the surgery I had a bad regurgitative reaction to the Vicadin I'd been prescribed. There was only one word for him in that situation (given I had to bring in an associate from ATL to drive me to and from the hospital who stayed with me post op)...JACK@$$!

We talked a little longer as he drove himself to the after hours care center. We chatted about my impending move and he somehow managed to mention that he has a basketball game tomorrow. "You can't play!" I said, like the motherly figure I am. "You've hurt your ankle! You should stay home and do the RICE method...Rest, Ice, Compression, & Elevation." He told me he didn't feel right with the ice, and he hadn't really done the rest of it today. I reiterated that I might try to get back to NO early. He finally tired of the conversation when I mentioned that I might go into my local IA office tomorrow.

"Alright, Njeri," he said with his typical tone {I'm done with this}. "I'm almost at the place."

"Alright, Carlos," I replied, having finished playing the concerned nurse.

"So when are you coming home?" he asked, "Tomorrow?" he hopefully added.

"If I can get a flight," I offered, knowing I wasn't going to put much effort into changing my flight for someone who couldn't bring himself to do any more than what was convenient for him when I needed surgery two years ago. "Let me know how that works out," I closed with. If he could only hear the sarcasm in that statement, through his own pain.