Mandy Newham-Cobb illustration
The trout and the bedpan
It is late fall in North Georgia, and the cool waters of mountain trout streams provide relief for anglers seeking a respite after the summer’s heat. Hickory yellow, sumac red, maple orange—several of fall’s brilliant hues are still clinging to their limbs, providing one final display of color.
My wife, Cindy, is from this area, and we are on our way to visit her parents. Her dad is taking me trout fishing in one of those cool mountain streams.
The stream where we intended to fish will remain nameless for obvious reasons, but suffice it to say the trout were being cooperative. After wading in and out of the creek for several hundred yards, we decided it was time to exit the creek and head to the truck for sandwiches stuffed with bologna (or, as I like to call it, round steak).
I’ve never been one to maintain steady footing around a trout brook, or any waterway for that matter, and today was no exception. As I started to climb the bank, I slipped and jabbed a sharp pointed stick into the bend of my right arm.
A biting pain ensued, and I instinctively threw down my fishing rod and grabbed my wound with my left hand. Having read outdoor magazines since my youth, I am well versed in the myriad ways those of us who hunt and fish can meet our demise.
Hypothermia, venomous snakes, and extreme blood loss top that list. My immediate thought was that I would soon be departing this Earth by way of that third method, due to the fact that blood had already stained the fingers of my hand. What a way to go! I had read many stories about folks in the outdoors whose bones were found some years later, gnawed by small rodents. And here I was, facing that same inglorious fate. I maintained this thought process for several minutes, even though I had already staunched the blood flow, and the tail end of the pickup had come into view.
So, I walked down to where my father-in-law was fishing and explained that the quest was over and we needed to be heading home so I could show the injury to Cindy and find out whether I needed stitches.
Though Cindy doesn’t hold a medical degree, she has a knack for diagnosing sickness, even well in advance of any symptoms. There have been numerous occasions where I was feeling fine on Friday evening until she walked through the room and mentioned that I didn’t look as if I felt well at all. I always assure her that I am fine, but then I wake up the next morning sick. Psychosomatic or not, the illness tends to hang on for at least a couple of days.
Thus we headed home with me stemming the blood flow with my left hand and eating a round steak sandwich with the other. By the time we got back to my in-laws’ house, the sandwiches were gone and the blood had stopped except for a slight ooze between my fingers.
Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying, but since I had been near death while standing on the stream bank, I was disappointed that those folks at home wouldn’t be able to see just how serious of an injury I had sustained. You know what I mean. It’s the same deal as when you turn your ankle in a pickup basketball game. The pain is excruciating, but the rascal never so much as turns blue, much less all the yellow-green colors you hope will appear as proof of your anguish. Somehow, some way, someone needs to know just how bad it was. Thankfully, the knuckles on my left hand were still crusted in crimson.
I showed the wound the second we arrived, and Dr. Cindy assured me I needed stitches, so off we drove to the nearest hospital. Cindy went into the ER with me. She watched while the doctor administered a shot to deaden the area and went about doing a little trim work with the scissors. Next he removed a piece of wood from the hole in my arm.
The doc continued his magic with the scissors, and his ability with a needle and thread would have made my Aunt Ruth’s quilting club envious. I was happy that my fate was not to be left in the paws of gnawing rodents but still a bit bothered by the fact that my friends would never know just how close I came to that end.
It took a total of seven stitches to sew me up. On about the fourth stitch I noticed that Dr. Cindy had stretched out on the floor beside a silver bedpan. She had turned a color of green that would make a sprained ankle envious. The trout expedition had claimed its second victim.
About the author: Marvin Newman is a retired teacher in Cleveland, Tennessee.