My dad’s latest injury is proving to be an extremely frustrating experience for him and everyone around him.

This is mostly because my father hails from super stubborn Polish stock and refuses to listen to anyone about anything. (I HAVE NO IDEA WHO INHERITED THIS TRAIT. UH. YEAH.) He also seems to be taking his damn time realizing that “torn meniscus” and “fractured tibia” suggest that one should…how do you say…take it easy? That perhaps he should not have spent Saturday WEEDING HIS GARDEN???

You know, just saying.

“Dad!” I said upon hearing that he was outside all day doing YARD WORK. “You have a BROKEN SHIN.”

“It’s not broken. It’s just fractured.”

I…right.

He insists he’s fine, can walk on it with barely a limp, can get around A-OK! Except that he sometimes forgets to mention that out of nowhere, his knee will twist and give out, causing him to fall down wherever he is currently standing. This happened while I was home on Long Island this past weekend, at approximately 8:12 AM Monday morning when his knee twisted, gave out, and my dad fell FLAT ON HIS FACE ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR and screamed so loud that he woke me up. And my mother. And my sister. But not my little brother because Jem could sleep through fighter jets bombing our backyard.

Our house suddenly jumped to life, all of us startled out of our lazy holiday weekend slumber. My sister and I bolted upright in bed simultaneously, exchanged worried glances and bolted down the stairs, following my mother’s feet.

We found my father splayed across the kitchen floor on his stomach, moaning in agony, unable to move or stand up or admit defeat.

“HUBS!” my mother yelled, which is the only thing she calls him except for the occasional time she elongates it and refers to him as “Hubby”. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life heard her use his first name. Not once. LITTLE BIT OF DLUG TRIVIA FOR YA.

And you’d think that my mother would maybe have yelled out that pet name out of fear and worry and you’re probably right. She very well might have. But it wouldn’t be an authentic Rita moment if it then wasn’t followed by a tirade of everything you did wrong in your whole life.

My mother has a knack for this. I remember in college when I crashed my car into a concrete meridian coming out of JFK Airport. (DON’T ASK.) The car was totaled, both airbags had deployed, I was alive but only by sheer luck and I had been waiting on the side of the road with The Roommmate (who also survived) waiting for her to arrive. I expected sympathy. I expected a tearful reunion, a tight hug, a mother’s uncontrollable sobs, etc.

Instead, my mother drove her car through the scene of the crime, pulled over and took a breath before launching into an entirely spontaneous hysterical speech. “THAT SIGN SAYS 25 MPH! I HAVE A HARD TIME BELIEVING YOU WERE GOING TO 25 MPH YOUNG LADY!!!!!! YOU ARE TO OBEY TRAFFIC SIGNS! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Oh, I heard her. And so did most of Brooklyn and Queens.

My point is, sympathy comes later. The immediate reaction is limited to why you’re a moron who ended up in this predicament in the first place. A clue: It’s probably your fault. And if you’re not exactly sure WHAT you did wrong, well! Good thing you’re laying face down on the kitchen floor with a bad knee because this is the PERFECT opportunity for me to tell you. AND HERE I GO!

YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN WEEDING YESTERDAY.
YOU NEED TO WEAR A BRACE ON THAT KNEE.
I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU’RE GOING TO GET INTO MANHATTAN TOMORROW FOR THAT DOCTOR’S APPOINTMENT.
I NEED TO DRIVE YOU.
NO, WE NEED TO RESCHEDULE.
YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO TAKE IT EASY.
YOU ARE SO STUBBORN.
THIS IS LIKE THAT TIME THIRTY YEARS AGO WHEN I TOLD YOU TO TAKE IT EASY AND YOU IGNORED ME…

By this point, the three ladies in pajamas were under my dad’s armpits, helping him to stand up. (Which, because he is a genius, he kept trying to do on his BAD LEG. So then my mother got more ammunition to continue lecturing: OTHER LEG! OTHER LEG! WHY ON EARTH ARE YOU TRYING TO STAND ON YOUR LEFT LEG?)

I believe the unspoken pet name after that last tirade was not “hubby” but “dumbass”.

I could be wrong. But I think her intention was obvious.

We got my father to a standing position and we told him to just RELAX, CHILL OUT.

This lasted a good twenty minutes and then he attempted to go down to the basement to empty the dehumidifier water.

WHAT?

I know. It doesn’t make sense to me either but it was apparently A VERY IMPORTANT TASK THAT NEEDED IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.

And right then and there, I had a taste of what my mother deals with on a daily basis. You suggest HEY, you’re HURT, maybe you should SIT DOWN and then that someone says, YOU KNOW WHAT? I need to travel up and down a flight of stairs to empty out the dehumidifier water! THAT’S WHAT YOU MEANT BY SIT DOWN AND TAKE IT EASY, RIGHT?

And obviously, you did not mean that at all. And your blood begins to boil and before you know it, a stream of yelling comes pouring out of your mouth because MY GOD, YOU HAVE A DOCTORATE IN SOMETHING IMPORTANT, HOW CAN YOU BE SO ANNOYINGLY STUPID?!

I grabbed the bucket of water from his hands and told him to PLEASE for the LOVE OF GOD, go sit on the couch and stare at the wall before I kick you in the healthy shin. My sister and I ran out to get him a hardcore knee brace for badasses and an iced mocha from Starbucks. We propped his knee up on some pillows and turned on the television and LO and BEHOLD, my father sat still through an entire episode of NCIS. It was about a sniper who kept killing military recruiters. I know this because he kept yelling me the details in case I was wondering what was going on. Turns out, I was.

I sat down for a little while on the couch and watched the end of the show with him, where the good guys catch the bad guy. They corner the sniper and shoot him full of a crazy amount of ammunition. Blood splattered everywhere and I couldn’t help but exclaim, “DAD. How do you WATCH this violence?”

“I have to.”

“You…have to? You have to watch this?”

“Yup.”

“Why is that?”

“Your mother.”

“You watch shows like this because of mom?”

“Yeah. I mean, she took a baseball bat to my knee. The least I can do is learn how to protect myself.”

“I don’t think sniper techniques are going to help.”

“LAWRA. YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.”

‘Nuf said.