Ironically, after writing that last blog that touched on the impending birth of the newest member of our clan, I went downstairs to discover that our water had broken. On a Sunday, no less. I was all for just putting it off and dealing with it Monday, but the Missus felt more immediate action was necessary so she—now, hold on a sec, just to be clear, the water line to our house had broken. We were, like, totally out of water at every tap. I didn't mean— You didn’t think that—well, anyway, it was a pain, especially with my gal so terribly pregnant and deserving of being pampered.
It reminded me, of course, of the time a certain hospital in Chicago found itself without water due to a broken main and managed—through the strategic deployment of bottled water, porta-potties and, the most precious commodity of all, a sense of humor—to get through it with no more than the usual compliment of dead bodies.
If they could do it, certainly I could live by their example. Luckily, it was raining a deluge so I just put an empty garbage can under the downspout and before you could say, “holy crap, it’s coming down hard,” it was brimful of rain water which I hauled around in a five gallon bucket to top up the toilets as needed. Meanwhile the missus ran to the store and got some potable water and just like that we’d managed both the intake and the outflow.
Not a very exciting story, now that I’ve set it down. But it wasn’t a particularly exciting episode of ER either, come to think of it. Sometimes, in ER as in life, it’s more about the waiting.
All in all, kind of a long way to go for the “broken water” joke, but I basically couldn’t resist.