Wounded in action

I've been away. It's been a rough week. I made clay up for my Thursday night. I prepared for classes. I taught classes. I reclaimed clay. I made fire. I burned the Christmas tree. See rituals - oops, I didn't post that! I eulogized this past Christmas as I laid it out for final viewing in my spare room. There it lay waiting to be entombed until next year. (Except for the stuff either soaked or frozen on the outside where we've had a collective 5 hours of sun since Christmas day. We're over double our normal rainfall for January.) Then I fell off the stepladder.
It was a simple thing. I had one more entwined string of gaudy sparkly stuck to the wooden thing in my dining room. The rickety ladder with the bad hinge was there, the good one was at least 30 seconds away. I needed to just get it done and go get ready for my class. My husband put the brace on my ankle, while I winced and cried, so I could get through the classes. Then while I cried at the computer, he cleaned my studio and asked what else needed done and did I think I needed to cancel and go to the emergency room. No, no, no, no. My compulsive nature got me through the classes. The latest one, a private lesson, was cancelled due to the student being out of town. So I had all night to gripe and moan. And I moaned, took pain killers and laid around most of Saturday as well.
Sick of the couch and the house, I accompanied the man to Lowes and Wal-Mart where the pain finally got the best of me and he dragged me back to my couch and blankies. Sunday was better, I was slow, but I made it okay only laying down to rest about 4 times. The ankle and hip are simply sore spots now. The back is convulsing some, asking "what did you think you were doing?"
My cat isn't a comfort cat. I love him lots. My husband says I make him ornery. He's followed me for three days chewing my fingers, the good ankle (he seems to know) and my face, pulling at my fleece wrap, dropping a toy mouse on me and then pouncing. He howls and growls. Expressive howls and growls, conversation? yes, purring? no. He has no clue why I'm not up and about. He has soft fur and looks like he'd be nice to pet. He's not. Even as I write, he lies on the floor and touches my feet and legs, looking up lovingly. I reach down to stroke him and he grabs my hand and bites it, smiling all the while.
We had a visitor today. He came in while I lay with my foot up and my back fairly straight. I struggled up and went in to help my husband get what he needed when I realized the guy was there. Louis could barely contain the smirk as he asked me where things were and I gave him vague, put you off answers with a total stranger standing just behind the couch I was on. We came out with the goods to find the guy and Hobbes in the sunroom. "This is the sweetest cat," he said, stroking my plush feline.
They left, I took Tylenol and then hobbled back to the couch, my fleece blankies and my attack cat.