I came home with a box of frozen pancakes instead of the waffles I stopped for, and tried to lock the front hall closet after hanging up my sweater, spending a good five minutes trying to ascertain where to put the key before realizing the hall closet has a static, benign knob, and will not lock. I am too tired to function.
I've been wearing the same clothes since Monday. I put them on Tuesday morning to run the dog out for his first walk. That was when we got the call that someone driving a car had merged into Lochlan's motorcycle on the highway, as he was making his way to Ontario for meetings. The force of the accident knocked him off the bike and he flew through the dark until he landed on the other side of a guardrail beside the highway in the tall grass. His helmet came off. The grass is what saved his (incredibly hard anyway) head, the armor he wears when he rides saved the rest of him.
His chin is black and purple from where the strap broke. His elbows and hips, coccyx and pride are bruised but he's alive. He's okay. And as soon as they are finished running tests he'll be coming home.
I was sent home this afternoon on the plane on account of not being much good to anyone. It turns out I'm not much good at home either. I would go back but PJ took all my stuff to keep me from doing that. He knows me well.
They thought Loch had brain damage. He asked for his wife. Then he asked for his wife's husband. We tried to explain and I'm sure we failed.
He remembers absolutely everything right up until they put him on the stretcher and then he blacked out from relief or exhaustion or shock. He broke three fingers of his left hand and somehow sheared off half of his right eyebrow and part of his lower lip, which is just ow-looking. His face is bruised. So bruised but the inside of his skull appears intact. He hurts all over but he's alive and he thinks I'm ridiculous for being relieved. That's a good sign, right? I've never been so happy to be scolded by him in my life.
