I’m tired of being a tragedy-oriented person. So last month I decided I’m no  longer going to always expect the worst.

That said, a few weeks ago I was cutting pears for dessert. I heard the buzz of my husband Bob’s chainsaw. “He’s cutting down a tree,” I said to myself. “He’s fine.” I kept slicing. “Fine, fine, fine, fine.” I heard the tree fall. “I’m not checking on him.” I took a little sliver out of my thumb. During this bloody episode, my “normal” self had a minute to slip in, accompanied by the sirens of the God of Neurotica.

“A limb went through his heart,” they called from my not-very-sub conscious.

I answered, “No. He’s fine.”

“He sawed into a swarm of killer bees and they’ve sucked out his eyes.”

“No.” I continued with the pears.

“He’s DEAD!”

OK. That did it. I looked out the front door but couldn’t see Bob. And that was because he was lying on the ground  . . .  under the fallen tree  . . .  with a broken leg.

I ran to him and cradled his head in my arms as he tried to speak. He opened his tear-filled eyes, looked up at me while in agonizing pain and whispered, “Please don’t write about this.” I promised I wouldn’t. When people are in shock, they forget everything so you can promise anything you want.

So now Bob’s in a cast and can’t do much. But that’s OK, because I won’t let him do anything that requires heavy equipment, such as spoons. Judging from something he said last night, I think I’m getting on his nerves.

He said, “You’re really getting on my nerves,” and hobbled off to the kitchen. where he got the can opener for the coffee. I grabbed it. “I’ll do that.”

He took it back. “I’m nearly helpless and you’re making it worse.”

I pried it out of his hands. “It’s good to share your feelings, Bob.” I opened the can. “Getting rid of pent-up emotion is good for the colon, and aches and pains in general.”

“Well, I do have one big pain  . . .  in the neck.”

And so, we haven’t been able to do things together like take long drives or go hiking. Last week, we went to Friendly’s and shared a hot fudge sundae in the front seat of our truck. We giggled while having the delightfully forbidden ambrosia. Later, I emailed my pal Deb, and told her that we didn’t do anything today - just had ice cream. She replied, “I hope your ice cream was magic.”

I told Bob about her message. He was on the couch, trying to scratch under the cast, but he couldn’t. Then he was having a hard time, I could tell, asking me to do yet another favor for him that day. He wasn’t even able to get his own Kleenex or play tug-of-war with our dog and her favorite stuffed hedgehog. And he was obviously so sick of this.

I sat by him and massaged his foot. “Hiking in the woods would have been a lot more magical than ice cream,” I said.

But then, as I often do, I pretended to look down at this scene from above. I saw two cranky people cloistered inside, not enjoying the gorgeous autumn day. And then, a new scene slowly washed over. I saw a tender moment in time with me scratching Bob’s leg as we sat quietly in our home. I saw the vibrant fall colors of the bittersweet, in full bud right outside our window. I saw a man with a broken leg that would surely improve with time. And I knew how lucky we were to be together, on this day that dreams are made of, when we joyously shared an ice cream.

If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.