by Fay Jacobs
Our adopted-son-the-actor has a theory. He thinks that the god of essay writing has been smiting me with bizarre life circumstances so Ill have inspiration for LETTERS.
Ive pooh-poohed the idea for a while now, but as I sat in the Hand Clinic at Baltimores Union Memorial Hospital, with the middle finger of my left hand (youve got the idea) poised decorously on the x-ray plate, I was beginning to think he was onto something. "Make a fist except for that finger," the technician requested. Um, okay.
The resultant brightly illuminated x-ray of me flipping the bird to the consulting physicians had the whole room screaming with laughter. It looked like something Jesse Helms would ban. Id been cultivating a bump inside my fingertip for some months, but it suddenly grew painful and had to come out. Why Id developed this cyst is fodder for speculationexcessive computer use is but one theory (dont go there).
Personally, I think the actor is right. These things dont happen to people who dont have to come up with an idea for a column on a regular basis.
Suffice it to say I was in the operating room by the next day, awake, but numb (somewhat my natural state) and listening to the surgeon proclaim "Whoa! This is no princess and the pea."
Apparently, the finger tumor (thats the first time Ive ever typed those two words together) was a whopper, although fortunately it turned out to be a benign tumor of the digit (the correct terminology).
Unfortunately, the doctor was a sadist and proceeded, despite my plea for a double-digit bandage, to wrap my middle finger alone in a humongous swaddle of gauze and tape and send me on my way. Now its bad enough that my waiting spouse took one look and burst out laughing, but complete strangers in the hospital elevator and pharmacy also had a cathartic hoot at my expense. I looked like I had a giant dildo attached to my hand (dont go there).
So we drove home, with me being careful not to accidentally raise my hand above window level lest I incite passing motorists. If I wore a big enough jacket I could make like Napoleon and not offend anyone.
The next day I drove to work, hand propped on the steering wheel, with this digit thing making a perpetual left turn signal. It was not a good day, what with my staff, several clients and the entire organization board of directors having their funny bones tickled at my expense. By 5 p.m., all I wanted to do was go home and try to get a glass of Absolut to my lips without dunking my club finger. Alas, utensil use was a challenge, so dinner would be, as they say, finger food.
So I walk in the front door and find a note: "At the vet. Max sniffed something up his nose."
Now this raised more questions than it answered. Ive seen the dog sniff. In addition to typical canine hydrant sniffing Ive seen him aspirate things like drywall dust, kitty litter (that was a nice moment) or an entire vodka gimlet. It makes him sneeze. So????? What did he do, hoover up a visiting Yorkie?
I was still trying to imagine exactly what would constitute a sniffing emergency when the front door opened.
"Were back," said Bonnie, canine Dust Buster in tow. "The vet said she was glad Max was still around to do these dumb things." To hear Bonnie tell it, Max had gone out for an innocent backyard pee and when making his site selection he took an extra energetic sniff at the lawn.
"He came back in the house with his snout all scrunched up, unable to stop sniffing and sneezing. It went on for 15 minutes before I called the vet."
And?????
"Well, they said it could be serious so I rushed him over there." According to Bonnie, just as they were pulling into the parking lot, Max let out a thundering sneeze, giving himself a very bloody nose.
With the bloodied dog in her arms, Bonnie raced into the office, whereupon the receptionist gasped "Hit by a car?"
"No!" Bonnie hollered, "Something up his nose!"
That stopped everybody in their tracks.
As it turned out, Max had to have a 9-inch blade of crab grass extracted from his left sinus. You dont see Grassectomies just every day on E.R.
Which brings me back to my original theory: my whole family has to lay low for a while and let some ridiculous things happen to other people for a change.
So here I am, trying to type with this gauze- covered zucchini on my hand, determined that until this last column of the season is written Im not doing anything or going anywhere an adventure could possibly befall me.
"But arent we going to Punkin Chunkin?" Bonnie asked.
"Are you kidding? And be severely injured by catapulted pulp? Think of the trouble I could get into writing about the crowd."
"Are you going with me to take the boat to dry dock at Indian River?" she ventured.
"Not on your life. Theres a crab pot with my name on it just waiting to sabotage us. Or Ill get Physteria. Pay somebody else to be ballast."
"Well lets just go by Lambda Rising and congratulate Barry on his promotion to Manager."
She almost had me there. "No, tell him how pleased I am and send my regards."
Bonnie looked exasperated. Only her sense of propriety prevented her fromas the x-ray technician put itmaking a fist except for that finger.
"Well you cant just sit here in the condo until deadline." Yes I can. And wish all LETTERS readers a happy Thanksgiving, a terrific holiday season, great outlet shopping, a delightful January and many wonderful adventures until we get together again for the Valentines Day issue.
As for me, Im going to do my best to have a completely uneventful but lovely winter at the beach.
Well, thats it for now. Max is barking to go out.
"Okay boy, but follow the Presidents lead. Dont inhale any grass."
[ Previous Story | Back to Top | Next Story ]
11/21/97 Issue. Copyright 1997 by CAMP Rehoboth, Inc. All rights reserved.