As my doctor, who shall remain nameless for both his and my privacy, entered the exam room, I noticed something new – his left arm was cradled in a big black sling. And, even though I know he has been asked 3 or 4 (thousand) times before, I couldn’t resist asking what happened.

Looking a bit sheepish, he explained that he had broken his collarbone after diving to catch a wiffle ball that was flying into the left outfield. (Side note – did you know grownups played wiffle ball?) He added that, a day before his accident, his pregnant wife had undergone a minor surgical procedure (another side note - I'm not sure I believe there is anything "minor" about any surgical procedure) and, a week later, she had given birth to their second child.

As he told me the story, I wasn’t sure who to feel worse for – my doctor or his wife.

I can only imagine her response to the news he had broken his collarbone – nine months pregnant, her attention must have already been split between planning for the baby, preparing to leave work for 3 months, and taking care of their 2 year old daughter… how much sympathy, love and empathy can one woman muster? And now, 1 week after her daughter’s birth, she is dealing with taking care of their older daughter, waking up with the baby and, lest anyone forget, recovering from the trauma that is labor and delivery.

We faced a similar situation when I was 8ish months pregnant with Sophie – Steve, having successfully installed a new projector in our living room, ruptured a disc in his back lugging a heavy television up to the second floor. As I rubbed his back and harassed him about taking his medication I had the distinct feeling that I should be having my back rubbed! I had been lugging this kid around for the last 8 months and my back (feet, arms, tummy) was killing me!

Being the clear-headed wife and mother that I am (hey, who just snorted?) I could also feel a twinge of sympathy for my doctor. Is it his fault that his enthusiasm for the great game of wiffle ball (???) drove him to complete the play of the century, and then continuing to play 2 more games? Can anyone blame him for not admitting that, as he gets older, he can no longer complete plays worthy of Boston Red Sox left fielder and Hall of Famer, Carl Yastrzemski (yes, I had to look that up)? Don’t we all agree that it sucks that we can no longer bounce up from frame-shaking falls and continue on our way (I had to laugh when he said "I played 2 more games because I thought my shoulder was "just" separated. Do I really need to point out that parts of our body should not be "separated"??)

And, most importantly, doesn’t he deserve a little bit of love and sympathy when he gets hurt?

Sorry. I needed a moment to collect myself after laughing myself silly.

Of course my doctor, and my husband, deserve to have their boo-boos kissed and ice applied when they get hurt. But let’s face it. For most moms, hubby ends up at the bottom of the totem pole - supporting the whole structure but totally neglected.

Poor guys.