It was hot. Blistering hot. Over a hundred degrees hot. The kind of hot that slaps you in the face when you walk out the door. Now compared to Mikey, or Painted Promise, it is not a big deal, probably. They live in the desert, and are used to stuff like this. Me? Not so used to it. The temps were up over 100 degrees (40 celcius), and it was a bit humid.
Last night I dragged to bed. It was so hot, I couldn't even sleep. I thought about going down to the other house. It is shaded and cooler there than it is up here. But it was so hot that I couldn't even make myself move. So I lay there miserable and sweating. Tim came home from his second shift job about midnight, and when he came upstairs, we talked about (what else?) the heat. I said that I'd thought about just heading over to the other house after work, but I was not sure that he'd be up to the extra driving. He said, "No. Let's go," and so we went. It was so hot that I just went in my cotton nightgown. Did not even get dressed. Carried my clothes in a bundle.
It was a lot cooler in the new house, probably a good 10 degrees. With a sigh, I headed for bed. Tim, though? Tims have got to putz before they go to bed. He was somewhere upstairs, I was drifting off to sleep, and I heard a scream. A scream, I'm telling you. Tim is not much of a screamer. I also heard a string of cussing. Tim is not much of a cusser. I leapt from bed, and ran for the stairs calling, "Tim, Tim, are you okay? What happened?" just as he was coming down the stairs.
"Get me a paper towel," he gasped. I did, relieved that whatever had happened was not causing him to lose obvious amounts of blood. "What happened?" I asked once again.
He was opening a window, a loose one that did not stay up. It dropped. On his finger. Yep. That finger.
This morning, I said "Tim, I think that you need to go see a doctor." He won't go. He claims that the doctor will just send him over to get an x-ray, which will cost $170, and the insurance company will only pay $40, and he doesn't need to spend that much money to tell him what he already knows. I suggested that perhaps the doctor could give him antibiotics. He suggested that he doesn't need them. Not yet. I guess he'll know when he needs 'em. His finger will start to stink.
Late edit: After I called the doctor's office, and explained my stubborn husband's stance, the nurse spoke with the doctor. He's going to call another antibiotic in for Tim. (One relieved exhale). Thanks Dr. E! You're just the best!