Post Pi(e) Day

ast night, I logged on to Facebook thirty minutes before bedtime and was bombarded with messages about pie. I wrote:

Instead of getting up early in the morning to go running, I think I will stay up late and make a pie. Darnit all you people and your Pi Day postings...

As soon as I hit enter, Michael came into our bedroom and flopped onto the bed. Of course the one time in our entire marriage that he decides to go to bed on time is the night I'm thinking about pie.

I considered my options and decided that I didn't want to stay up all by myself to make/eat pie because that's weird. So I went to bed.

And it's a good thing I did because it turned out that today was the day I really needed pie.

This morning, I noticed Michael standing next to the bed with one arm over his eyes. I said, "Head rush?" He nodded, and then

T
I
M
B
E
R

down he went, flat as a board, smack on his back, passed out.

Miraculously Michael managed to fall at exactly the right angle and land in exactly the right spot so that he avoided hitting his head on anything. And when I say miraculously, I literally mean miracle. The man is six feet tall, and some type of furniture or pile of junk covers every single inch of space lining the walls of our room except the one spot where his head managed to land.

Now this is the part of the story where I take you on a little detour to say that I've been in this situation once before. When we were in high school, my sister Kellie stood up too fast one morning, passed out, hit her head against the wall, and had a seizure. Then she got up, said she felt fine, and we went to seminary. As I remember it, that experience was mildly scary but mostly kind of funny. We laughed about it all day, all month, for years afterward.

This was completely different.

Michael's eyes were wide open, staring straight up at the ceiling, and he was making a weird, throaty, monotone, moaning noise. He wasn't having a seizure, but he was making that weird noise that made me think maybe his tongue was blocking his windpipe, and anyway, I needed to do something, so I moved his head a little bit and opened his mouth and started shouting, "Michael! Michael! Michael!"

And then he came to. "What happened?" he asked, noticing that he was lying on the floor.

I started laughing. "You fainted." And then I started crying. Hysterical crying. Like half-laughing, half-I-can't-stop-the-tears crying. And all morning, every time I thought about it again, I'd start crying again.

So I made a pie.


Plus, I enjoyed this awesomeness today:


When I picked Michael up from work today, he started talking about that "really funny thing that happened this morning." I was like, "Yeah, it might have been funny. If it wasn't the single most terrifying experience of my life!"

But at least I got to eat pie.