She did great, but today got out of control in a hurry.

Much like when the driver of the red pickup truck cut off my wife and caused her to crash her bike at about 25 miles per hour.

This morning, one doctor’s office visit and an X-ray turned into a surgical consult. We’d been hoping that the collarbone would settle itself down, but the past week, the relaxation of the muscles and all of that, have actually shown the true extent of the problem. The first doctor was — what was that reaction? Appalled, Stunned? Crestfallen? — a bit shaken by today’s X-ray. What the pictures said was that surgery is the right answer. Avoiding surgery, at this point, is a game of chance, but, really, delaying the inevitable.

The doctor says, “I’ll let you think about it.”

Not that there’s much to think about, really. Young and active and planning on staying that way, the best outcome is the one you want. That’s definitely surgery. The surgical outcome is far more controlled. But, for a week, she’d been hoping to avoid that.

It’s funny, you spend a week trying to will something to happen, gritting through terrible pain, and then one photo that makes the point, clear as day. The space between the bone fragments was large enough to write “surgery” in a substantial font.

I’m not sure how many sentences we’d gotten into the subsequent “think about it” conversation when he came back into the exam room.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

And that was when the day turned into a sprint. If there’s a surgery, someone should come into town to help out. Her mom will be on the next plane. We need to get her from the airport. Arrangements made. Arrangements changed.

There needs to be some straightening up around the house, then. New sheets on the guest bed. Floors vacuumed. Room made in the closet. Extra bathroom opened. Coffee purchased. And and and. I’m also still in a quixotic campaign to get her painkiller prescription refilled.

The surgical center called. There had been a cancellation, can we come even earlier? We could and we did. There was scarcely time to think or react. We just did, all day. Maybe it is better that way. Less thinking and worrying and fretting.

Because there hasn’t been enough of that in the last week.

And so I found myself sitting in the foyer between the waiting room and the carport of the surgical center, answering work email, because that’s what important right then, I guess. What else was I going to do?

She did great and she’s doing great. But that’s why there’s not more here.

But don’t forget: Catober begins this weekend.