John is a big fan of soap and water. I'm a proponent of hand sanitizer. When he came down with a head cold just days after I broke the rib, I asked him to please use the hand sanitizer. "Sure, okay." I know what that means. It means, "Don't bug me. I'll do what I want—it's good enough." Thanks for the cold, John.
Other things you probably don't want to do while you have a broken rib include very simple stuff—like breathing. Breathing is good, though, and that's the reason they no longer bind your rib cage when you have a break. People stopped breathing in deeply enough because of the bindings. Like the pain isn't going to stop you? (Just breathe through it or you'll get pneumonia, the doctor said.) Ouch. That would be fun.
Climbing stairs isn't much fun because the legs are connected somehow. It's complicated. Everything you move seems to connect to that rib, pulling it the wrong way. Is there a right way? Bending over is difficult, but getting back up is almost impossible. Luckily nobody is aiming a camera at me while I use walls and chairs to return to an upright position after retrieving something I've dropped on the floor. It's easier when John's around, since he'll gladly pick things up for me. Unfortunately, he's been hiding in his HAM room downstairs pretty constantly since we got home. Maybe he comes upstairs while I'm sleeping. I've been doing a lot of that since I got sick.
Between the pain pills and the first chest cold I've had in at least four years, I think sleeping is a miracle. I'm not a good sleeper usually, but this week? Wow. I'm setting new records. One thing I've noticed about sleeping (and pain medicine definitely adds to this) is that it really cuts into a person's reading and playing time. Every time I get out of bed I expect to be healed. Mind over matter. I think I'll go back to bed and check again in about six hours...