The result of which is that Sherwood and I have more scars than professional pirates. We basically lived outside, in the sun, unprotected from the searing elements like nomadic warthog ranchers throughout our teen and young adult years.
Standing at the reception desk at our dermatologist, my chest covered with an enormous surgical bandage, I pointed at my husband. His ear was covered with an enormous surgical bandage. We looked like survivors of a “peaceful protest” in a big city.
“We were born in 1958. Can you tell?” I joked to the receptionist.
The receptionist, young and unscarred, did not laugh. I find many young people sluggish in their ability to understand irony or satire. Okay, they’re dolts.
Recently, my husband complained about yet another pre-funky spot on his ear. At our house, funk is skin cancer, so pre-funk . . . well . . . you get it.
I was thrilled when he came to me pointing at his ear. I’d been using frankincense, a natural oil, with a great deal of success on a few of my pre-funk spots. But you have to use a lot and often. I told him that. A lot and often.
“Lay down,” I commanded. I tipped the tiny bottle up to apply the miracle oil to his pre-funk ear spot. A tiny drop of oil trembled on the curve of his ear, then ran straight down inside, hit his eardrum, and killed him.
Okay . . . maybe it didn’t kill him, but he sure gave a great impression of someone dying. He writhed in pain. Writhed. Was writhing. Did writhe around.
Wrapped in a towel, fresh from my bath, I called my daughter and demanded, “Does Phillip have clothes on?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Your father is dying. I may need him to take your father to the hospital.” I hung up.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” I asked.
“No!” my husband said, while writhing in pain.
“Get in the car. Put on a mask. We’re going to the hospital.” I pulled on a darling little dress and a coordinating Covid mask.
It was our finest trip to the ER. It was empty of Covid corpses or victims. It was clean to the point of gleaming. They triaged us in the parking lot. We waited five minutes in the sit-there seats, saw a PA, RN, and doctor in ten minutes. They flushed the man’s ear, diagnosed a hitherto unknown ear infection (thus the bizarre death pain) and gave me a stern, condescending glance.
“Let’s not do that again,” the doctor said, after I explained the frankincense treatment/accident.
I stuck my tongue out at him, but because I was wearing a Covid mask he had no idea.
Best emergency room visit EVER.
Linda (Skin Walker) Zern
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