If It Had
Been A Rattlesnake
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Those familiar dangers we learn from
childhood on are such a part of our consciousness that they carry instinctual
wisdom and warnings that become second nature. Growing up in the Milk River
Valley and the foothills and plains beyond, we know to stay away from the River
in flood, stay out of the pasture with the mean bull and don’t pick up a baby
rattlesnake, cute or not.
Such wisdom even tells us if the
rattlesnake has just had its head chopped off, leave it for a while. Reflexive
action can be dangerous. Let the dead snake alone, like three days, I say. For
example, I would never in a million years smash a rattlesnake and immediately
reach down to pick it up to put it in the trash.
Along toward evening last Sunday I
was working at my computer, finished my project, closed the program and stood
up. My foot squished something crunchy and alive. Fortunately, my feet were
clad in sandals. I lifted my foot and looked down to see what had gotten itself
put into my path. Immediately I was transported half way across the room and
expletives unfit for a family newspaper issued forth from my mouth. Where my
foot had been nano-seconds before lay a dead scorpion the size of a small dog.
I swear.
The thing is dead, right. I’m bigger
than it is and had squished it heartily. My heart slowed down. I grabbed a
paper towel and reached to pick the it up and dispose of the carcass. The dead
scorpion reached up as I reached down and stung me on my forefinger. I didn’t
know they could do that.
I left it where it was, carefully
stepped around it and sat back at my computer and searched for information on
what to do for a scorpion sting. There was a long list of things such as apply
Benadryl, go to hospital, ice the affected area, go to hospital, carry
anti-venom kit (That’s telling me to lock the barn door after the horse ran
away.) on and on and on and go to hospital. So I did what any self-respecting
I-can-take-care-of-myself-type person would do. I got ice and a rag and wrapped
my finger in ice.
A few minutes later Lupe walked in
the door. “Hi, Hon. Oh, by the way, a scorpion just stung me.”
“Where?”
“There.” I pointed to the
super-sized mangled body on the floor.
“No, where did he sting you?”
“Oh. Here.” I held up my hand
wrapped in a rag soaked with dripping, melting ice, my finger numb and tingling
and painful.
Next I remember a series of
disjointed scenes, like in a bad movie. I was tucked into the car, my hand
still wrapped in ice, careering through the night darkened back streets of
Mazatlan. I held on for dear life as we rolled around corners, taking every shortcut.
I giggled. This drama hardly seemed necessary. It’s not like the scorpion hit
me full strength. We rolled up to the door of the Red Cross Hospital.
Flash forward. I was lying on a
gurney. A nurse injected three hypos of mystery medicine through a tube
attached to a needle attached to my inner elbow. I don’t do needles. That part was
exciting. Still on the gurney, I had to wait a couple hours, for “observation”.
Now and then someone came through and asked my difficult questions such as “Do
you know your name.”
Eventually Dr. Hector called me into
his office to make sure I could walk and kept me there another half hour asking
the hard questions, “Do you know your name?” He wanted to keep me six hours but
I convinced him I could go home. Dr. Hector released me with medication, a list
of don’ts which included no alcohol (no problem), no caffeine (painful) and no
operating a motor vehicle (easy). He said to stay in bed three days (a joke,
right).
I thought the whole thing a bit melodramatic.
One day in bed, okay. I had things to do the next day. A third day was truly
excessive. I slept the first day. The second day I thought I would humor Dr.
Hector so cancelled things to do and people to see. The third day I got up for
an hour, yawned and said to myself, “I think I’ll just lie down for a little
nap.” Several times.
Now that I’m back in the land of the truly living, I have
learned a world of wisdom and knowledge concerning scorpions. I never put my
feet on the floor without looking first. Never go barefoot around the house. Never
pick up a dead scorpion. Maybe in three days if it hasn’t moved.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
February 6,
2014
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