Thanksgiving — North Weeds style

The phone call came at 6:15 AM on Thanksgiving day.  A little girl, my granddaughter’s age, had been in a horrible accident on the Interstate.  I had been in the twilight zone between asleep and awake, hearing the radio without listening, when the phone rang.  I hurried out of the house.

“Hurried,” as I age, has become more and more a qualified term.  Hurried this morning meant that I showed up with bed hair and with toothpaste stalactites at each corner of my mouth (no time to use a mirror, razor, or washcloth — you get the picture).  It also meant that I shuffled across the icy parking lot.  Again, the same weather that caused the accident in the first place, that denied us air superiority for transfer to a trauma center, caused our parking rink to become a skating lot.  I learned that shuffle with a painful lesson five years, three surgeries, and a permanent disability ago.

The little girl will be fine after some recuperation.  It could have been so much worse.  I left her in the capable hands of those who during more pleasant weather would have arrived much more quickly with a clatter of rotor blades.  By land or by air, they’re always a welcome sight.  Angels don’t always need wings.

Oh — “hurried” also meant that I spent approximately thirty minutes in the trauma room with the fly on my jeans unzipped.  Oh, well.  Dress in haste, repent at leisure.

One Response to “Thanksgiving — North Weeds style”

  1. Tom says:

    If my physiologic age is related to the number of times I forget to zip my fly, I’m an old man.

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