Sometimes things gang aft agley

Yesterday I wrote that the kitchen project was on hold during Cinda's visit, but I was wrong. By yesterday afternoon, while she lay on the couch recovering from the redeye flight and I lay on the other couch recovering from chemo, Jerry was out creating storage for the cabinets that are to be torn out. The storage, by the way, in the top picture, is made from boxes he built in Liberia which have followed us and been used everywhere we've lived since.

Cinda and I moved everything from the cabinets into the temporary storage (pots and pans are, for the moment, on the end of the island), and Jerry started the demolishing project.

Throughout our marriage, there have been times when I come home to find a blood-stained note on the kitchen counter: Have gone to ER, don't worry. . This time, with much less drama, when I came back from the Y he showed me a large bandaid over his palm and said it was nothing.

I shouldn't have believed him. We went out for a very nice lunch, and when we came back and he was getting ready to go to orchestra rehearsal he stripped off the bandaid and asked me to help put a new one on. It was like looking into the Grand Canyon.

Cinda and I sent him off to the ER. Because he wanted to go on to orchestra and we just have one car, he had to drive himself.

Result? Nine stitches and a tetanus shot later he came home, having missed orchestra. No damage to blood vessels or tendons, so he's lucky.

Me? I was going to write a sentimental post about how much having Cinda here means to me, and it does. But there's Jerry, wounded warrior, and part of me feels almost happy to be the one who's doing the fussing and being the caretaker for a change.