Val Is So Lame

Remember, a while back, when I was pretty sure Hick is trying to kill me?

I'm pretty sure.

The Pony and I got our flu shots yesterday, bringing back memories of the year The Pony got his flu shot and, the very minute we got home, ran into the bathroom to vomit. And the time Genius stepped out the automatic sliding doors of his doctor's office, and commenced to drag himself across the parking lot to the car, whining, "I can't feel my LEG!" Yeah. Good times.  I even joked with my flu shooter about Genius's leg malfunctioning after his arm got the vaccination.

No vomiting to report this year. But four hours after the flu shot, Val pulled up lame!

It's as if Genius, The Pony, Even Steven, Karma, and Irony joined forces on a reality show and voted out Val. One might think that a flu shot could not jump straight to one's left knee, make one virtually unable to walk, and inflict pain so unbearable that one wanted to vomit. One would be sorely mistaken. And I DO mean sorely.

One moment I was fine, and the next moment I sat down in the basement recliner and commenced to hurtin'. With my leg propped up, even! No position was comfortable. Oh, and did I mention that right before this happened, my face felt the heat of 10,000 suns? I don't know if that flu shot gave me fever, or set off some kind of inflammation response, or if it was merely a coincidence, and a small fleck of chipped-away cartilage from the back of my kneecap chose that moment to lodge itself into an opening needed for bending. Probably the latter.

I've had a painful knee episode like this before. Again, on this knee that has seen two surgeries. It was during the halcyon days, when Genius, The Pony, and Hick were still squarely under Val's thumb, and we booked a Saturday night at the casino with a free stay coupon. Hick and I took turns staying in the room with Genius and The Pony, both agog with, respectively, high-speed internet that could only be gotten with a call down to the desk, and an all-cartoon channel that we did not receive at home.

Because of my injury at that time, Hick borrowed a cane from my grandma so I could hobble from our end-of-the-hall free room (funny how that works) down to the elevator, and across the wide expanse of shops and restaurants to the casino. I was not complainin'. And I was not too proud to cane my way past ogling diners at the indoor sidewalk cafes.

Back to the present. Last night, when I finally clawed my way upstairs at the stroke of 2:00 a.m., I was able to find a painless position in bed, laying on my left side, where the nausea went away. Until I struggled to get up at 4:00 for a trip to the bathroom. I reached to the headboard to grab Grandma's cane. Isn't that where everybody keeps their dearly departed Grandma's wooden cane? But it was not there! And I could not straighten out my knee! And the waves of nausea came back due to the pain. Even Hick was roused from the sleep of the breathered by my poignant sobs.

"What's the matter, Val?"

"I can't find my cane! Where is my cane? I hurt my knee, and I can't walk without my cane!"

"It's in the living room. Under the coffee table, last I saw."

"I can't walk. So I can't go get it. Waaaaaa!"

"I'll get it for you." And my sweet baboo hauled himself out of bed and took off for the darkened living room for my cane. I hobbled around the bed, grabbing onto the mantle of the fake electric fireplace, then the bottom bedpost, then the trunk at the foot of the bed, and threw myself across the empty expanse with no handholds to get to the bathroom door. "Here's your cane." Hick handed it to me.

THEN PROCEEDED TO SHOULDER HIS WAY IN FRONT OF ME THROUGH THE BATHROOM DOOR!

"Waaaaaa!"

"Oh. Were you going in there? I'll go to the other one." And Hick took off to the other end of the house to use the boys' bathroom.

I grabbed Grandma's cane. Took one step. Then another. Crossed the threshold into the master bathroom. "EEEEEEEEEE!" I almost fell on my face! That cane skittered across the glazed forest green tiles like Kristi Yamaguchi's blades across Olympic ice. I caught myself on the vanity, and flipped on the light. The bottom of Grandma's cane was a sharp point covered with black electrical tape. I reached my arm out of the bathroom and hung that death-device on the French handle of the open bedroom door. Hollered to Hick that I could not use the cane because the stopper was gone. Then I wall-walked across that large, large bathroom to do my business. I heard Hick get back in bed. When I came out, I heard him speak through his breather.

"Where's the cane?"

"Hanging here on the door handle."

"I have the stopper in my hand."

"Good for you. I can't stand here any longer." I lurched across the handhold vacuum until I reached the trunk, and made my way back to my side of the bed. The far side. I fluffed my pillows and PAINFULLY climbed in, to lie on my back this time. Big mistake. That hurt my leg, which did not want to fully extend. It hurt too much to move, but it hurt too much to sleep. After about a half hour, I either shifted it enough to make the pain bearable, or I lapsed into unconsciousness.

The next thing I knew, my knee was on fire! Pain radiated down my leg and up my leg, straight to my brain, which said, "I've had enough this!" and called out a message to my stomach to barf. But I didn't. I stayed flat on my back, fighting waves of nausea, vibrating like a being-stirred can of home-improvement paint at Lowe's as Hick finished turning over.

Hick is not a good turner-overer. He goes about it like an 8-year-old would-be trampoline champ, trying to set a Guinness record for the highest jump. Like a panhandling break-dancer who makes six figures passing the hat on a New York city street. Like a high school sophomore doing the worm, embarrassing his prom date, further enforcing the belief that only juniors and seniors should be allowed to attend.

I dragged myself over the edge of the bed, whimpered some more, and climbed back in on my left side. Where I blissfully gained another hour and 45 minutes of sleep. When I woke up, Hick was gone to work. He had stoppered Grandma's cane, and I could move freely at the speed of a Galapagos tortoise about the house.

I still don't know why Grandma's cane was in the living room under the coffee table, with a pointed taped end like a hobo might use to pick up cardboard with a nail, or where the stopper was.

But I'm pretty sure Hick is trying to kill me.