As usual it’s been a busy week or so, loaded with all the minutiae which fill the minutes from waking to sleeping. I discovered I’d been exposed to covid, so I got another test which came back negative for covid, but positive for flu, though it was a light case that resolved shortly after I received my results. The school quarter ended, I submitted my grades, and started madly building modules for next semester. First my son, Chase, then my daughter, Abby, headed to Provo for school, leaving the house curiously quiet and rather cleaner. I also got my covid-19 vaccine.

For months we’ve all been bombarded with news of “Operation Warp Speed,” as pharmaceutical companies desperately raced to produce a vaccine to face-off against the covid bullies. I am not an anti-vaxxer, in fact, given our years traipsing through third-world countries, my family’s been vaccinated and then some, to escape the clutches of assorted and exotic flesh eating beastules. Consequently, I followed the covid vaccine story with great interest, and when it was finally released, I was pleasantly shocked to learn the Utah governor decided to prioritize teachers in the first wave of injections. A few weeks later an email invitation appeared in my inbox. I had my golden ticket.

Finally, the long-anticipated day came and I showed up for my appointment, which was useless because I still stood in line for an hour and a half. But suddenly I sat in the nurse’s chair, she wiped my arm, and plink, it was over. She was so fast I didn’t even feel it. All that furious worry, fear, and buildup, and poof, three easy seconds, bam. The Big Bully lost half his teeth, and dropped both gun and knives, though he will retain his sword for another 21 days until I can get the second dose. It was a strange moment of before and after, a tiny hinge when I looked at my agenda and blandly checked a dragon off the list.

This was also birthday week, and we celebrated Abby’s birthday by going through the Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-through because she was adamant that was what she wanted. This time we went two full hours before closing, but the clerk still cited vanished inventory and asked to use chicken tenders to make her Crispy Colonel Sandwich. If you’ve read about our prior KFC adventure, you know we were laughing our heads off, which frustrated the woman at the intercom who wasn’t quite so cheery and optimistic as the previous young man.

The next day we celebrated Chase’s birthday at Teppanyaki’s Japanese hibachi steak house, and when my sister, Roni asked for her fillet mignon “medium-well” the chef gave her the stink eye. “I give you ‘medium’” he said, “otherwise it’s jerky.” Nobody came to her rescue because we all agreed with the chef, who also had a few choice comments for two other members of the party. “Why you want chicken?? Nobody order chicken,” but they stuck to their guns.

After dinner we all drove to the Utah Valley Trauma Center, and I pulled out my phone. “Hi Shara, we’re out in the parking lot. Can we Facetime with Rachel?”

In the last week there has been so much minutiae, bits and pieces clattering through my days, but there was a big thing too, a really big thing that drove us all to our knees.

Rachel hit a tree.