Lyman won't look at my scar from the femoral hernia repair. First time in ten years he hasn't been interested in my naked belly. "No," he said. "I don't want to see it. I can handle things happening to myself, but I can't handle them with other people."

In more than one post, the most recent one here, Larry Anderson has reported that he injures himself while doing repairs. Lyman is the same. He always turns up with a scraped knuckle, or a small cut, or a bruise.

In one case, it was worse.

We were working on remodeling the house. The living room furniture was stacked on the porch, and we were putting up crown molding. Lyman was in charge of the electric miter saw. (I can use drills and screwdrivers, but no self-respecting belle runs a miter saw. Unless she frames pictures.) I had taken a bathroom break while Lyman was outside cutting an angle. From the opposite end of the house I heard "Janis, I've hurt myself bad!" Dreaded words.

I hitched up my sweatpants and went to see what was the matter. Lyman had cut the back of his wrist with the saw. I grabbed a clean cloth from the laundry room and pressed it against his wrist. "We need to go to the hospital NOW," I said. Lyman was trembling. He sat down at the kitchen bar. "Let me rest for a minute," he said. "Okay," I said. "Would you get me some coffee?" "Okay." Lyman kept the compress on his wrist and drank a little coffee to settle his nerves. (Yeah, yeah.) "Lyman, let's take a look at this and see what we have." He reluctantly approached the sink, we took the compress off, and ran cold water over his wrist. It really wasn't too bad, but it needed stitches. "This needs stitches, Lyman. We need to go to the hospital." "Okay." "I need to change my shoes." "Okay." "I'll drive." "Okay." So I started walking to the bedroom. At the corner of the dining area and the hall I fainted right to the ground. "Janis? Janis? Are you okay?" "I'll be all right." I rolled over onto my knees and crawled down the hall to our bedroom, then dragged myself onto the bed. "Janis, are you okay?" "Give me about five minutes." It took about that long for the swoon to pass. I changed shoes and we drove to the hospital. A week later, I took the 13 stitches out myself with a single-edged razor blade and a pair of tweezers.

I don't want to look at his scars, either.

LATER: Looking at this post, I see it makes no sense to include the detail of the furniture being stacked on the porch, unless you consider that I could have cracked my head going down. I don't want to imagine that fiasco.