Muse. Ramble. Rant. Repeat

A god on rum, an idiot sober

Sat in an emergency room for 8 hours today. In those 8 hours CJ had two xrays, one cat scan, a chat with one emerg doctor, a resident surgeon, an on call orthopedic surgeon and at least four RNs who all told him what I’ve told him all along:

He should not drink rum. Ever.

 I would wallow in my rightness if this didn’t suck so much.

 Last night CJ broke his foot. While drinking rum. While wrestling. The details of how seem to be fuzzy for him and those involved but when I arrived at the party at 10:30pm he was hobbling around complaining of a sprained ankle. I called him an old man. We went home. I got him some ice. I got a little angry because of the rum and wrestling. We went to bed.

 I should take a minute to explain why I’m angry and have no sympathy:

 I’m an awesome girlfriend. No really, I kick ass in being supportive, loving and giving. I’m only occasionally crazy and mostly I’m fun. I’m not controlling and generally don’t care what CJ does as long as it doesn’t violate my three basic rules: 

  1. Don’t lie to me.
  2. Don’t do anything to harm yourself, and therefore our relationship.
  3. Don’t drink rum.

 What? That last one seems out of place? It wouldn’t if you knew the dumb CJ becomes after such a little amount of rum. Normally quiet, well mannered and thoughtful he starts thinking he is a god and nothing can harm him. This causes all sorts of trouble; enough that I’ve banned rum.

 But does anyone listen to me? No. Instead CJ manages to sneak rum by me every so often, then he does something stupid, then he’ll lie to me about it. This makes me all sorts of angry, causing a fight. Then the neighbours, who don’t like me as is, start thinking I’m crazy because I’m yelling at the top of my lungs and CJ talks back to me in a calm, rationale voice. This causes more yelling from me. It’s not a good scene and one of the few things we fight about.


 Back to the foot:

So we wake up this morning and CJ can’t stand on the “strained” ankle. We go to the hospital. We wait for 8 hours, seeing various specialists. They tell us he has a broken foot.

 This has a lot of implications in our world – CJ works in a trade; therefore if he can’t walk, he can’t work. Immediately off work for 8 weeks. We had lots of fun plans in August including trips to beaches, sailing, cabins and such. A cast means he can no longer partake in any fun activities, so summer is essentially ruined.

 I’m currently wallowing in anger and can barley see straight. I’m trying not to take it out on the cripple, trying to have sympathy for him and his broken foot and our ruined summer.

 I’m trying. Really, really hard.


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