Let me just begin by explaining that we have an outdoor, wood-burning furnace on our hobby farm. In the past, I’ve had a deep dislike for the beast, which failed to keep our home properly and evenly heated, did an inadequate job of heating our water (I spent YEARS taking tepid to cold showers, for which I held a tremendous grudge) and caused me to smell like a smoked sausage every time I fired up.
Well, human error was responsible for most of those failings. For our first five years here, we ordered small pieces of fireplace-sized, pre-cut wood – but if you buy logs and hire a guy to come over and chop them – surprise! – you get cheaper, rougher-cut, bigger pieces that burn longer and hotter. When you look in your electrical panel and realize someone disconnected your water heater, and then reconnect it and also replace the entire water heater and all its piping, you can finally take a hot shower. And if you duck when the smoke gusts out of the opened furnace, you mostly don’t smell like you’ve been baked in a wood-fired sauna.
The one immutable task is stacking and handling firewood. Last month, I ran out to fire up and threw a few logs in, gloveless, as I often do, and picked up a few splinters, as I often do. One particularly stubborn sliver wouldn’t come out of my ring finger. It was in there a few days; I finally got it out, cleaned and bandaged it, and went on with my life. By that evening, my finger was red and puffy.
Following a mostly sleepless night, I went to Urgent Care for an antibiotic. From whence I was sent to the Emergency Room, wheeled into emergency surgery (due, I suppose, to an infected tendon and the two red lines steadily creeping down my hand) and admitted for a three-night hospital stay. A hundred years ago, the problem would’ve been solved with a bottle of whiskey and a pen knife. Instead, I had a perfectly splendid nap while an orthopedic surgeon did a tidy job of cutting, cleaning and bandaging. Thankfully, because I hate whiskey. And then I was on staycation.
My room had a lovely view of Half Moon Lake, and while the cold wind swept and the ice storm glazed, I imagined myself in some wintry resort, perhaps, or on an Artic cruise ship. Having four young children (the oldest turns 10 next month, which feels like some sort of accomplishment) means I have little time for solitude, or relaxing, or watching the programming of my choice, or just lazing around. Plus, I always have to cook. (I used to work as a chef. I love to cook. But I also love it when someone else cooks for me.) I may have mentioned this once or twice, as my best friend can attest.
The curious thing about getting what you thought you wanted, even in somewhat altered circumstances, is that it may not go quite as you envisioned. Fact is, I was bored by the end of day one. I’m not big on screens, so television has limited appeal. I couldn’t really read or type with one hand in a sling. I couldn’t sing (which I do, compulsively), because my throat was raspy from a cold and surgery. And all the solitude, as glorious as it was, didn’t stop me from worrying about the kids – how their father was going to feed them, for example, with his very limited culinary skills. (Apparently, he called his brother for instructions on how to heat hotdogs. Smirk.)
The larger issue with a hospital staycation is it forces you to think about your own mortality. I’m allergic to penicillin (in an anaphylactic kind of way), which inconveniently happened to be the best antibiotic for the situation. So the doctors were scrambling a bit to find an effective substitute. While I considered how bizarre it would be to die from a splinter, I cracked a lot of bad jokes (my usual response in absurd or awkward situations), which the nurses and doctors kindly tolerated, but I also thought about our tenuous grip on health and life and how rapidly it can change. And I prayed some Our Fathers and Hail Marys, and felt grateful for the medical workers and the man who delivered Communion on Sunday morning, and hoped and trusted that all would be well.
Many, many had it worse. My grandmother, 89, was in a different section of the same floor I was on, struggling through a far more invasive infection and a lengthy list of ailments. She’s spent many months now in and out of the hospital, but mostly in, so I sneaked over a few times to try to cheer my fellow inmate. I knew as I packed up and waited to be discharged that she is losing her grip on an earthly life that has grown too physically and mentally painful – losing, too, any will to maintain it – and before long she will face the severing of body from soul, and with the grace of God, a hopefully heavenly homecoming. Please keep her, and my mother, who is caring for her, in your prayers.
One last thing: There was a rather lovely moment when a doctor came in – Muslim, judging by her headscarf – and said, “You are well now. Praise be to God!” Then she startled a bit – because, as we all know, secular American culture dictates that we do not say such things outside of our own houses of worship and our own faith communities. But I had to smile and agree, because she was absolutely right. We should be grateful, give praise where it is due, and speak it out loud.
I am well now (and my finger is still attached). Praise be to God.
