Summer in our home began with a bang. Literally. I was helping my husband put a piece of dock in the water by our lake camp when I overstepped the end of the dock and plunged into the water. On the way dawn, I impaled my backside on a metal bracket. I passed out climbing out of the water and when I awoke, I was rattling around in the back of my car, which felt like it was going 100 mph to the hospital. My husband was driving and talking on the phone at the same time. Had I been in my right mind, I would have been scared to death.

The ensuing three weeks felt like six. Not just for me, but for our nineteen year-old son. He had just returned for the summer after finishing his freshman year of college, ready for a fun-packed few months. What he got was three weeks carrying his Mom from the bed to the couch and back again, grocery shopping for the family and changing bandages on my backside. (What nineteen year old wants to do this, let alone see his mother’s backside?) As much as I would like to say that…