Last Sunday, I considered posting here that I was feeling better, and might actually be posting something of note in the near future. I really felt like I was finally getting over the bronchitis that had plagued me for over a week. I've heard of typing things like that jinxing things, but I didn't know that even the very thought of typing such hopeful words could send the bad juju action my way. Sunday night, about 11:30, I sat up in bed to cough a bit, felt a pop, and was greeted with searing pain in my back. I had just coughed my way to a broken rib.
In case you had not heard, broken ribs hurt like H-E-doublehockeysticks. I fell back asleep, only to wake up a couple of hours later nearly immobile. I managed to whimper a little, then work my way downstairs to take some of the narcotic cough syrup the doctor has prescribed on Thursday. I got myself to the couch, cried a little bit, then fell asleep. When Mr. Deplume got up at 4am for work, I told him about my troubles. He offered to stay home from work for the day, waited on me hand and foot, and took me to the doctor, who prescribed me some very nice pain pills.
Some friends and family members took charge and brought some dinners and got the girl to and from school for me, and for that I will be forever grateful. After two days on the couch, mostly asleep from the drugs, I am again mobile, and mostly narcotic-free. I am still moving very slowly, however, in what can only be described as a cross between Tim Conway's Old Man character from the Carol Burnett Show and Leaning Tower of Pisa. It's not pretty.
Of course I am still cursing under my breath every time I cough, but I am moderately sure that I will live.
I even managed to knit a little this morning, finishing a pair of mittens for the boy. I don't think I'm going to attempt to catch up on the blogstalking I've missed, though. I buried enough as it is in stuff that needed to be done last week. Sorry, folks. You won't get to see a picture of my oatmeal.