The Day I Almost . . . Bought the Farm

It was 1995 at a writer’s conference in Houston. I’ll never forget it. It was the day I almost . . . bought the farm, did my last jig, almost two-stepped right into the light. Yup, I almost died. And the crazy thing was that I let it happen because of a personality flaw.

Not intentionally, of course. You see, I’m a retreater.

Sure, I love being in the limelight. Love giving workshops. But when I’m angry, upset, or sick, I do just the opposite. I retreat. Yup, my hubby never worries about getting yelled at, it’s when I get quiet that he starts sleeping with one eye open. That or he starts taking my temperature to see if I’m sick. Because if I am, he’ll never hear about it from me. Heck, I’ve had surgery, other surgeries, scheduled before he knew anything was wrong. I mean, why cause a scene?

I come by this honestly. Not that I come from a long line of retreaters. Oh, no, it’s just the opposite. My flaw stems from my need to compensate for the failings of my foremothers. No doubt about it, I come from a long line of drama queens. If my aunt clipped her toenail too close, the entire neighborhood, including the plumber, and her gynecologist would know about it. They’d know about it in detail, too. Every painful pinky toe detail. If she suffered from constipation, she’d get all gussied up and make a show of going to the grocery store to purchase a laxative. She’d talk about her problems to anyone who would listen, the checker, the bagger, and even the guy buying a case of beer. My point…everyone will know about it.

The same thing happened when she was angry. I seriously think the adage, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” came into being because of an ancestor of mine.

Hence, I’m a retreater.

So that Friday night during a dinner with an editor, when I started experiencing a little pain, (just a little gastritis I’m sure) I basically ignored the twinges. First thing Saturday morning, as I gave my workshop, the twinges had become a bit more uncomfortable. I blamed it on the broccoli. I mean, we all know what that veggie can do.

Workshop completed, I decided to go up to my room and die. At the time, I seriously didn’t know dying was a real option.

Around noon, my side was really hurting. Yes, I’m still convinced it was gas—in my defense, my fever had pretty much fried all my brain cells. Anyway, I remove all my clothes and climbed into bed. That’s when I realized that not all my brain cells have been cremated. Because it hit me that if I died, someone would find me butt naked in bed. So I got back up and put on my clothes.

Before I crawled under the covers, I went against my better judgment and called my husband, who is only an hour’s drive from the hotel room. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message.

“Hey, babe. It’s me. Give a call if you get a chance.”

An hour later, I redialed. “Hey babe. I . . . uh, call me please.” (Translation: I think I’m dying.)

An hour later. “Babe, I don’t feel very well, (Translation: I know I’m dying) call me.”

An hour later, fever around 104. “Babe, I might be sick. (Translation: It’s been nice knowing you.) Love you.”

Again, remember that my brain cells were fried from the fever. Still as hard I tried I couldn’t imagine calling down to the front desk and asking for an ambulance to go. And I really couldn’t imagine being wheeled down the elevator, through the lobby on a stretcher. I mean, this is something my aunt would have done. Dying was a much better option.

But deep down I knew I had to do something. I mean, I had books I wanted to sell. So I reached for the phone . . . but before I picked up, it rang.

“What’s wrong?” Hubby asked in a panic.

“It’s probably a gas bubble.”

He didn’t buy the gas bubble story and arrived in record time. And when he looked down at me on the floor because I had crawled to open the door, he really panicked.

Shortly later, in the ER, when a surgeon told us he’d have to remove my appendix, I argued that I’d eaten broccoli. My husband interrupted and said he’d seen a show on laparoscopic surgery to remove an appendix and it was a piece of cake. Hey, the man was trying to make me feel better.

The doctor shrugged. “It’ll take me an hour to set up that surgery, your wife will be dead in an hour.” Obviously the doctor didn’t worry about making me feel better.

Hubby sighs. “I guess you’re just gonna slice her open then.”

I argued they should give me some Beano and send me home. I argued all the way in the operating room. I argued with the prep nurse. I tried to get up and leave the room. Hey, at that point I was running almost a 105 fever and had some hardcore pain meds running through my veins. The last thing I remember was arguing with the anesthesiologist.

The doctor came in a few days later and asked, “Why in the hell didn’t you get help before you did?”

I told him the truth. “Because my aunt clipped her pinky toenail too close.”

Hey, I was still on the hardcore pain meds.

So there you have it, my near demise. Any of you ever brushed up against the pearly gates? Are you a retreater or a drama queen?

Crime Scene Christie