Recently, my husband Will and I took our dogs for a walk at the local greenway and happened upon a snake. Of course it had to be my husband to spot it. I would have given the long, black monster a massive girth and continued on my way. Will, on the other hand, had to try to touch it. And while screaming for him to get away, I actually started to cry. Uncontrollably. In my mind, I was imagining how fast we'd have to go to outrun it if it went on a killing rampage. Where we could hide. I mean, where can you hide from a snake? They can climb up trees, for heaven's sakes, AND fit in tiny spaces. And all the while I thought these things, I knew that the snake wasn't even poisonous. I'm no dummy. I can identify the goodies and the baddies; I lived in the country too long not to know. My fear just outweighed my rationale. And so I spun and walked away, wiping the graceful medley of snot and tears running down my face.
Will caught up with me only moments later and kept trying to get a peek at my face. "Were you crying? Seriously?"
"No," I sputtered, trying to force the words out with a carefree attitude. But I could feel him staring at me.
Afterward, I spent some time thinking about my bizarre reaction and came to a rather disappointing conclusion - I choked. In a situation that should have been a no-brainer. I knew the snake was harmless. He was just sunning next to the track, doing his own thing, and I had to have a cow about it.
Without consciously looking for a chance to redeem myself, I had the opportunity a couple of weeks later at the soccer field. Will had practice with some of his work mates and a new guy, a rare but coveted trained goalie. Five minutes into the practice, and the new guy was carrying his massive, six-and-a-half foot frame off the field. I saw him take his gloves off and fidget with his ring, so I walked over to offer to hold it for him while he played. When I got close enough, though, I noticed that he had one finger pointing in two different directions. I bent down to check on the injured party. He said his hand was numb, and he was sweating.
Walter's friend on the team walked over to rubberneck. "That really sucks, man. See ya," he said as he walked back to play. Not a soul offered to help.
Oddly enough, as we stood there, I couldn't help but feel angry with myself that I couldn't reset a joint. The finger looked dislocated, and I knew that fixing it would be a brief matter. "If I knew how, I'd fix it myself," I told the now-dizzy guy. "But I'd hate to try and mess it up worse in case it's broken."
"What?!" Will looked at me, shocked. "There is no way! I would pass out if you tried to reset his finger, Claire! I would PASS THE HELL OUT!"
I offered to take Walter myself and had to have help getting him to his car. He fainted twice trying to cross the field, and there was no way any of us could carry him. While not heavy-set, he was still a hefty guy. Thank goodness one player had a big truck to get us across the fields and to the parking lot. Still dazed and pale, I drove him to the hospital. In his state, he even assured me that he wasn't going to direct me out into the middle of nowhere on the way to the ER. Sweet guy. I noticed two car seats in his back seat.
I dropped Walter off at the hospital door and managed to make it out of the car (the car doors only opened from the outside, as I learned). I didn't even make it half way to the ER doors, though, when I spotted a teenage boy lying on the pavement with his head in the ditch, retching. He tried to lift himself up on his elbow and couldn't.
"Can I help you get inside? You could lean on my shoulder," I offered as I approached him. Then I heard a woman screaming.
"Don't touch him! Don't touch him! He's contagious! We've all got it!" she yelled, waving frantically with her husband and baby in tow.
I told the guy I was sorry he felt so bad and ran in to get someone to help him. Two big men in scrubs, gloves, and masks ran out minutes later and flew past the sick boy as he miraculously ambled in on his own and puked in a garbage can. He and his companions took a seat right along the rest of us, taking turns regurgitating in the garbage can next to me. Walter told me he was afraid it would make him throw up, too, and I tried not to laugh while his face turned green over and over again.
We talked about his two little boys, his flood rescue dog, and his career in mental health for the 5 hours we waited. He'd get called back to fill out paperwork and sent back out to the waiting room every hour or so. When he'd be gone, I'd strike up a conversation with whomever happened to be sitting next to me. One was a woman with a chipper toddler who couldn't sit still.
"He hit his head three hours ago," she sighed, rolling her eyes.
"Well, fortunately, it looks like he's going to pull through, " I told her as the boy scaled her shoulder. I had been trying to make him laugh when she wasn't looking, but I had inadvertently turned him into a monkey.
Next was a woman whose voice sounded as young as mine but whose face looked prematurely aged. Her eyes and cheeks looked sunken. Hollow. It looked like she didn't have teeth. She looked like people I had seen before, but I couldn't identify the people or the reason for the familiarity. She had brought her boyfriend in, and he was in a wheelchair with his leg bandaged. He told me he had fallen in a storm drain as he was walking across a road. "I can fit my whole hand in the cut," he said.
"Geez," I gasped and noticed the blood trickling down to his sandal, "I'm sorry, dear. Do you at least have good insurance to cover it?"
"I'm retired military, so yeah," he responded. I was surprised, though. The guy only looked to be about 30.
"I'm so sorry." I hesitated. "Are you okay? Were you injured?"
"Yeah. I blew out my back in 05. The humvee in front of me ran over an IED. Ours blew up, too, but I was in the gunner seat, so it just fucked up my back."
My mind was all over the place. What this poor guy had seen, what he must have been living with after that. I wondered if he could sleep at night or if he had bad dreams. I thought about the normal-people things that would never be normal to him again.
We talked more about the after effects of his service. He was retired because the military couldn't use him anymore, and apparently neither could employers back home. He couldn't sit, lie, or stand for long periods because of his back, and his PTSD didn't help matters. His girlfriend just nodded along.
"Did the other guys in the humvee with you...did they make it?" I asked, hoping to see him smile and say something like, 'Oh, yeah. Good guys,' or something like that.
He glanced down. "No," he mumbled. And he looked away, biting his lip. I had to look away, too, so he didn't see my eyes well up.
By nearly midnight, after Will had joined me, Walter told us to head home. He still hadn't seen a doctor but was finally in a room. I hugged him and told him to call us when he left.
I told Will about the sick teenager and the mother and the soldier with his girlfriend. I asked him what it was about the girl that looked so familiar to me, since he had seen her when he picked me up.
"Meth," he said. He explained that it changes people's facial features, makes their teeth rot. I felt so naive.
"That's some crazy stuff you saw tonight," he told me on our way home. We were hungry and exhausted.
I spent the rest of the night thinking about the people I saw, especially the soldier and his girlfriend. Worrying about what I could do, about what our government should be doing for vets, about policies that hospitals should have about people's emergency room waits...you name it. I took the evening seriously.
Before we went to sleep, my head still reeling, Will leaned over in the bed.
"Want to know what haunts me the most about tonight?"
"What?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"The thought of you popping that guy's finger. I just can't help it."
And I laughed for the first time all night. Suddenly I realized that, like the snake had been for me days earlier, Will had his minor weaknesses, too. And that, in the grand scheme of things to be afraid of - like losing your friends in an IED bombing, like meth addiction, like fearing that your child might have a concussion - they really were minor. Worth a laugh, even.
