Indirectly this is a fishing tale. Well, it’s not a tale because as outlandish and preposterous as it will sound, it’s absolutely true. Don’t think I enjoy exposing such stupidity, but I have to write something readers will identify with. Whoops, that didn’t come out at all the way I wanted it to. To think, people call me a writer. I just want to convey that we’ve all been at the wrong place at the wrong time and lucky are we who have survived to talk about it.
Forgive me for making it sound like it’s all my husband’s fault; like I didn’t have any part in my becoming a patient; therefore, it’s easier to blame others and to look like the “victim”. Let this sorry saga begin.
My husband is an avid angler, and while fishing off the shores of Montauk, Long Island he snagged a shark and, as a testimonial to his fishing expertise, he yanked out the shark’s jagged razor-sharp teeth, mounted it on a weather-beaten oval board, framed it with heavy hemp rope and hung it in our hallway—the big show-off.
But there wouldn’t be anymore to the story if I hadn’t decided, after almost a lifetime of stagnation of not using my muscles, to begin a little exercise. So, I removed the hemp rope, swung it over my tired head, then under my sore feet and sang the little ditty:
Cinderella dressed in yeller,
Went upstairs to kiss a feller.
Made a mistake and kissed a snake.
How many doctors will it take?
Doctors, what an omen, because I hadn’t jumped roped in well over a half a century, I became extremely light-headed and, with my equilibrium so off kilter, I staggered down the hall like a drunken sailor.
I had a 50 percent chance of falling against the ‘good’ wall, but no, I had to fall against the ‘killer’ wall, the one with the shark’s razor sharp, hungry teeth. It felt like a million needles invading my temple, and my hands could hold back the gushing blood about as much as the Louisiana levies could hold back Katrina’s deadly force.
A normal person would have been terrified, I said normal, but I began laughing like a hyena, maybe a manifestation of nerves. All I could envision was the embarrassing headline in the newspaper’s obituary column—local semi-elderly nut case dies from shark bite. Footnote to this death notice: There wasn’t any shark-infested water, and the shark was stone dead.
“No more embarrassed than the two lulus who limped in here about a month ago,” he grunted. “Their legs were all lacerated, the skin sliced to ribbons. Must confess I couldn’t muster up a hell of a lot of compassion after they explained what happened. Seems they had met while ice-skating so to recapture the magic, they went to bed and made love with their skates on. The guy’s lucky he still has all his equipment!”
There wouldn’t be any more to this story if I hadn’t ended up in the emergency room. “Listen doctor,” I stammered, “they say in your profession you’ve seen and heard just about everything, so I shouldn’t be embarrassed, right?”
How ridiculous that I, a semi-elderly nut case blushed at that, but the doctor said he found my reaction refreshing.
“Guess I’m lucky I didn’t meet my husband ice- skating, huh, Doc? I mean, it’s unrealistic to try and recapture the magic.”
“Forget magic,” he barked. “It’s a miracle that people can stay alive in their very own homes. That’s where most accidents happen, you know.”
Suddenly I thought of my four deeply loved children, now, those are accidents to be proud of! As for the rest of life’s little and big mishaps, they make us all of what we are today. Some say hurt and pain are a real kick in the head, hey, like I don’t know?
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