THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, November 25, 1995 TAG: 9511230010
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A11 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Opinion
SOURCE: George Hebert
LENGTH: Medium: 61 lines
Picking up a pine cone in the yard is not what I think of as a hazardous operation. Yet just such a simple act put me in a doctor's office a week or so ago.
One of the cone's stiletto-like spikes pierced the end of my thumb, leaving a piece of itself, or some dirt, well below skin level. After a little cleaning, de-germing (I thought) and Band-Aiding, the puncture healed over. I thought I was home free.
Then in the middle of the night a bit later, after my wife, Donna, had left on a trip, a painful throbbing developed in that hand. By sun-up I realized it would be foolish for me to do any digging into the reddening flesh, so I decided a little professional attention was the better part of valor.
At the clinic, they thought so, too. In short order, I found I was to get a tetanus shot, some injections around the base of my thumb to numb it while the doctor probed, and an IV hook-up to deliver a hefty dose of antibiotic.
As I lay there on the clinic table awaiting all this, I started thinking:
There I was, about to get five or six jabs from sharp medical instruments, plus various infusions of alien substances. And I was remembering shot-time in the Army dispensary back in the '40s when others keeled over and I almost did. And remembering, too, a couple of civilian-life tooth-pullings and a toe surgery when local-anesthetic jabs blacked me out for brief periods.
True, all that was long ago, painkiller chemistry has since improved, and I've been through quite a few injections for this or that without trouble.
Even so, possibilities did flicker, what with my not being a spring chicken and all. And yes, as I said, there I was - with not one of my family, friends or neighbors knowing where or why, nor would anyone on the clinic staff know whom to call if I should take an unintentioned nap.
So I thought I had better get some information to somebody. Using a piece of paper from my pocket notebook, and lying there on my back, I began writing on that flimsy scrap as I held it in the air. I scribbled that my wife wasn't home, and scrawled out the phone numbers of my neighbors and of my sister who lives here.
Finally I mentioned that Debbie, our cat, was locked up in the house, just in case she needed to be fed or rescued or whatever.
The next time the nurse showed up, I gave her my little slip of paper. She looked puzzled but smiled and said she was sure nothing was going to happen to me.
Nothing did, and after treatment the little pocket of infection cleared up fine.
Several days later, when Donna had returned, I told her and some others the story. And it sounded more and more absurd with each telling. Such a commotion over a sore thumb! Everyone, including me, got a chuckle out of it all.
Everyone except the cat.
Mainly, of course, because she can't very well know about that note. But on the wild chance that she somehow does, I'm betting she doesn't find it a laughing matter. MEMO: Mr. Hebert, a former editor, lives in Norfolk. by CNB