One of my husband’s worst, but also most endearing qualities, is that he gets sympathy sick. By that I mean he becomes acutely aware of his own health concerns only when someone around him is managing an issue of their own.
After almost four years of being together, I’ve come to recognize the pattern: If I get a cold, then Valtteri is coming down with the flu. When I have a migraine, he suspects he has tumor. I once had the sniffles of seasonal allergies and he went out and got a COVID test.
Long story short, this past week, I knew I was in for a big case of Sympathy Sick when Bravo and I had back-to-back appointments for kennel cough and uveitis, respectively. Both cases turned out to be mild, the doctors sending us both home with a few drops of this and that to take twice a day, but I knew that wouldn’t stop my husband from trying to one up us.
As the three of us walked back from the vet appointment, Bravo gagging on the street like he had a pack a day smoking habit and my left eye running down my face, Valtteri made his move.
“If my toe doesn’t feel better in the next few days, I’ll make an appointment,” he announced.
Dear reader: It’s true what they say. Laughter really is the best medicine.
I didn’t ask for details about the toe, but I got them just the same. Apparently my husband, an able-bodied adult male in the prime of his life, injured his foot while Christmas shopping, possibly on a flight of stairs. It might have something to do with the sneakers he was wearing. Then again, it may not. He doesn’t know! It wasn’t raining that day, which I wouldn’t have thought important given that the steps in question are inside.
“When I do this,” my husband said, assuming a half lunge in demi-point on a city sidewalk. “I can feel it.”
I sighed. “Well maybe don’t do that,” I replied.
“I’m don’t,” he confirmed. “I’m just showing you.”
“How often does that even come up?” I countered. “When do you need to do that?”
“I’m just telling you,” he insisted.
“I think you’ll live,” I said. “With your chronic toe pain.”
“It’s more the foot,” he insisted, stopping to extend his leg in case I needed a visual. “This part,” he said, without irony, motioning to the toe.
I rolled my one good eye. “Well keep me posted.”
Here’s another little-known fact about my husband: He was a high school badminton star. That’s pertinent because mere hours after threatening to go to urgent care for a toe injury, Valtteri made plans to play badminton with a friend later in the week.
I know there’s a lot to set aside here: That Valtteri went to regionals for badminton; That a toe injury won’t interfere with one’s badminton game; That more than one person wants to play badminton. But the important part is that Valtteri plays badminton regularly despite the fact that he knows I will eventually write a blog post about it.
Even though badminton is one of the least attractive sports one could play, it is my top choice for Valtteri because he usually has the advantage. This means that he doesn’t have to get too carried away when he’s playing, which lowers the risk of actual injury. Like many men, he doesn’t understand the concept of friendly competition or personal limits.
I realized that about him firsthand two years ago when we started playing squash with another couple. While I treated those meetings as 60 minutes of light exercise and an excuse to go out for a drink afterwards, Valtteri approached every match like it was the Olympic trials. It will come as no surprise that I dropped out of the circuit at around the same point my husband started wearing protective eyewear. I know that’s safe for his eyes, but it was just too much for mine.
“These balls go fast,” he said.
“You’re the only one hitting them like a maniac,” I pointed out.
“Well I want to win,” he replied.
“We’re not even keeping score!” I countered.
Valtteri sniffed, as if to say, “That’s what you think.” And I want you to keep that in mind whenever you read one of my blogs where I appear to be dragging my husband for no good reason. I may write humorous essays about his adorable shortcomings, but he’s the one keeping score in his head.
In any case today is badminton day and Valtteri left the house at 8:30 a.m. with nary a mention of his toe. On his way out the door, I told him to be careful and have fun, as is my custom. Then, for some reason, I added, “If you hurt yourself, don’t come back.”
I was joking, of course—but also being sincere. I am trying to wrap up a month’s worth of work before the 23rd with the benefit of only one eye, while nursing our dog back to health and also trying to wrap a dozen gifts in between. The last thing I need is to entertain some song and dance about a skinned knee or sprained finger.
“I’m serious,” I warned. “If you hurt yourself, do not come back here.”
And I should have never said that. Not because it tempted Fate, but because it planted an idea deep within the psyche of a hypochondriac.
It was 9:49 when I got the text from Valtteri saying that he was heading to a private emergency room for “an injury.” When pressed, he explained that it was either a “badly sprained muscle” or a torn Achilles tendon. I am not a doctor, but I was able to diagnose him via text message when he told me that he could still walk on his own.
“Probably just a muscle strain,” I said.
“I want to be sure,” he replied.
And I cannot argue with that. I am a huge proponent of peace of mind: run the test, get the blood work, scrape the cells of my uterus every two years instead of five. Walk yourself into an urgent care center and tell the person at the counter that you would like to see someone about a combination Achilles-toe injury in the middle of a pandemic one week before Christmas just to clear your head. More is more! That’s my philosophy to healthcare! That’s why I supplement with private insurance. Enjoy it.
About an hour later, Valtteri limped through our front door on a pair of metal crutches.
“Can you bring me a chair?” he asked.
“What’s wrong with you?” I countered. I needed to establish a few facts before deciding where to set the bar with this so-called injury.
“My calf exploded,” he answered.
“Just a muscle strain then?” I asked.
“I can’t put any weight on it,” he said, while demonstrating that he could in fact put weight on it.
“I’m not bringing you a chair,” I said.
He sighed. “Well can you take my shoe off then?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
“Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll just sit on the toilet.”
And, again, I know all that makes me sound a little cold, but I’ll have you know that when my husband came out of the bathroom, he did so without the crutches.
“You jinxed me,” Valtteri complained. “You told me not to get hurt!”
I also told him to be careful and have fun, but he was conveniently leaving that part out.
“Where are your crutches?” I asked.
“I don’t need them indoors,” he said.
“Ah,” I nodded. “Makes sense.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to take the dog out today,” he added.
The dog, I should note, was sprawled on the couch, wheezing and coughing like he has late stages of emphysema at the time. Send him out on the streets of Helsinki with a man in crutches and someone would probably call social services. We’d have a live-in nurse by the end of the week.
But all jokes aside, I agree that no one with even a hint of an injury should walk Bravo. Even with his clogged little lungs, he has enough strength and energy to pull a small car out of a ditch.
It’s probably better that I just do it. And I’ll take the elevator too. God knows this family is one bad toe injury away from complete ruin.
It brings me such joy to see your blogs land in my email! Happiest of Holidays to your infirm family 😊
awww. thank you so much!! so happy to hear that. it means a lot! i’ve had my hands full lately so i can’t write as much as i’d like, but i hope that changes soon. happy holidays to you and yours as well!! xx
Honestly, this could be my husband. Your stories hit the nail on the head.
Enjoy the holidays!
thank you! happy holidays to you and yours as well!! hopefully no injuries or illnesses for all :)
Loved this one! My mother used to call them “sympathy pains”. They happen a lot!
thank you!! they do happen a lot, don’t they. if only we could determine WHO they seem to affect the most, hmmmmm.
Hahahahahahahahahahaha
my sentiment exactly.
This made me laugh so much!
i’m glad! it had me going too. A toe. A TOE!!!