I Don’t Need Your Sympathy

I have a trick ankle. An odd expression when you stop to think about it. It makes it sound like I have an ankle with the surprising talent of pulling rabbits from a top hat or something. The rest of me might be challenged to blow up a balloon, but you should come and see my ankle sometime. Amazing show!

Of course, the only trick my ankle really performs is failing to keep me on my feet. While I find these impromptu nods to gravity somewhat amazing, I doubt I could sell tickets or hire a man in sparkly tights with rippling six-packs as my side kick, even if he would come in handy for helping me back on my feet again. And he’d be awfully fun to look at. A distraction from the pain. However, when I’m hurt, the only thing I want is to be left alone.

Take last night. Please. I’m outside watering the planters around our deck. More precisely, I’m outside dragging a reluctant garden hose around the yard. A hose that’s behaving like a dead work horse on a string. Every time I pull, the hose refuses to follow, preferring to snake itself around plants, vehicle tires and rocks. I arrive in front of the deck, hose in hand and glance up through the patio doors. I can see Darcy sitting on the couch watching television. I look away, pull hard on the hose, the clown whistle blows and down I drop.

From Darcy’s position on the couch, he has a perfect view of my head bobbing along the edge of the deck, followed by a sudden drop from sight. It would be like witnessing a person stepping into an elevator shaft. Knowing this, I struggle to scramble to my feet. The last thing I want is for him to rush out onto the deck to peer down at me with concern. I detest sympathy when I’m hurt. I just want to be left alone to lick my wounds. I know why canines slink off into the woods to die. That’s what I want to do when my time comes. I hate the thought of lying in the pretty room at the hospital, everyone gathered around staring at me. Leave me alone already.

Struggle as I might, the pain is too great to get up. When Darcy comes out, I will simply have to yell at him to go away. I lay there, my mind bouncing from the pain in my ankle to the dread of hearing the patio door opening. The man is probably on the edge of the couch this very second, hands clasped, praying for his beloved’s head to reappear. If I don’t get back up in say, 30 seconds, he’ll come out. That must be it.

Okay. He knows I want to be alone when I’m hurt, so he’s giving me a good five minutes before coming out. Or more likely, he’s in the porch putting on his shoes right now, so he can help me back inside. I wish he wouldn’t. I’m okay. I just need a couple more minutes.

Maybe he’s gone to the deep freeze to fetch a bag of frozen peas. That’s so thoughtful. Annoying but thoughtful. He must have got the peas and his shoes on by now. What’s he waiting for? A commercial break? He could at least show a little concern. For all he knows I’ve just dropped dead from a heart attack.

The more I think about it, the madder I get until finally anger overtakes agony and I manage to struggle to my feet. I hobble slowly into the house, where I find my husband still on the couch but at least looking extremely concerned.

“C’mon. The bases are loaded, we need this one. Don’t choke. Hit the ball. . . Hit the ball . . . Argh! He struck out! Nooo!”

I hobble dramatically into the living room, clinging to walls, chairs and assorted furniture. I groan. Nothing. I groan louder and flop into the nearest chair, my ankle hovering in the air in front of me. Still nothing.

“Didn’t you see me fall out there?”

“You fell?”

“Yes, right in front of the deck. I think I might have sprained my ankle.”

“That’s terrible. Do you want a bag of peas? Should I take you to the hospital?”

“Don’t be a drama king. Leave me alone. You know I can’t stand any sympathy or attention when I’m hurt.”

Good grief. After 30 years together you’d think the man would know me.