Football Is Not A Funny Old Game

Photo credit: renjith krishnan

As I sit here typing furiously (and I mean furiously!) on my laptop I'm listening to my husband ringing clients and suppliers...

"Yeah, I fractured my ankle last night *laughs*"

I can only assume at this point they say "Oh no, poor you.  Is it painful?"

"Yeah it's pretty painful *laughs again*"

I'm sat here looking for the nearest blunt instrument to stab him with.

You may think I'm really mean and unsympathetic.  You'd be right on the lack of sympathy.  I have none for him.  But I'm certainly not mean.  He did it playing football. A sport which has hampered our lives previously but still he continues to play.

About 4 years ago he broke his wrist.  I was at the gym at the time and didn't have my phone with me so the first I knew about it was when I pulled up at our house to discover two blokes in football kits on my driveway waiting for me.  They'd driven my husband's car home as he'd been whisked off in an ambulance.

I ran into the house, fed the dog and dashed to A&E to discover him sitting in a wheelchair white as a sheet with what I can only describe as the most distorted arm ever.  Even looking at it made me feel sick.  He had to stay in hospital and have an operation where it was pinned.   He couldn't do much for months.

I asked him to stop playing football.  He didn't.

Last year he broke his leg.  He actually didn't end up in plaster as he went to the hospital and they said he'd not broken it and didn't even bother to give him an x-ray.  He was in agony for months with it until finally another hospital x-rayed it to discover he had infact broken it.  It was too late to plaster as the bone had already started to heal.

I asked him to stop playing football.  He didn't.

Then last night, I hear the key turn in the door and I wait for the sound of limping (I do this every week as he usually comes home with some small injury).  All I heard was "shit ow" from downstairs.  Then I heard him hobbling to get up the stairs.  "I think I've broken my ankle".  Great.

A phone call to my parents to babysit, a trip to A&E, x-ray, plaster, 4 hours later we are back home in bed.  He's going to be in plaster for 4-6 weeks and can't put any weight on it whatsoever.   That means him doing very little as he's on crutches.  He can't carry our daughter, he can't drive, he can't take a shower without my help, we can't be 'intimate' properly, he is pretty much incapable of doing anything.

I'm not going to bother to ask him to stop playing football.  I'm tired of this game.

The only joy I am going to glean from this is the fact that his mother will hit the roof when she finds out.

Every cloud.......