My husband didn’t waste any time telling me what to do when I called him from my car Monday afternoon. I followed his advice and called 911. I was feeling worse by the second. Not as bad as the bloke in Richard Thompson's 1952 Vincent Black Lightning, but you get the idea.
Two days later all I can think about are the words of this Old Ceremony song:
Yeah, cause in a flash, the car will crash, the heart will give in/
And the levee breaks; our one mistake was never ever really living.
Having been reminded of my own mortality, I grow convinced of the wisdom of my resolution to have more fun this year. Well, resolutions are always tough, and if you thought mine were crazy simple, I guess the hard part was more about the more and less about the fun.
“Can you tell me your name?” the operator said.
My name--so much to say--a heathen name the baptismal priest would not tolerate even though my mother assured the priest I would surely do some many good deeds in my life that I would be the first person in heaven with the name she had chosen to call me. So a biblical middle name was added as an afterthought, giving me four names to go along with my original middle name, the last name of my dear grandfather George. After all that, I was given a nickname by my father, as a joke about my need for a biblical name. So I became Hez, to a small but select group, including my father and my Texas mother-in-law and one of my best writing buds, Garrison Somers. I only gave two names—my first and last--to the 911 operator. Time was of the essence.
The questions people ask you when you might be on your last breath! “Can you tell me what kind of vehicle you are in?” the operator continued.
What is the last question you would ask me if you could? Please tell me you won’t ask me about my car even though it is one of the tools of my trade as mom extraordinaire. Ask me about my son starting a paper airplane club, or my daughter learning five foreign languages, or me, the fraidy cat, jumping into the falls at Dripping Springs. Ask me about my new favorite song about a flying squirrel. Ask me what happened one night (or another night, or another night) in the Mucky Duck in Houston. Ask me who sat in that night with the Resentments at the Saxon Pub. Ask what it feels like to hold a beating heart. Ah, so close to the heart of the matter of this blog.
“Are you pregnant?” the fireman asked. Now that’s an interesting question. A bit personal, too. If you were pregnant, would you ever think of confiding that to a man with a bullhorn in his truck?
“Do you want to ride with me to the hospital?” Wowzers, this was the best pickup line any man ever tried on me. And he was fast, too. We’d hardly spoken for a minute. Just my type! I thought about saying, “Aren’t you a little young for me?” but bit my tongue, the same way I did that night in the Mucky Duck when my husband asked me to dance to a Hollisters song. So instead of telling the fireman I was married, I proclaimed loyalty to another man, my family practice doctor. I promised to call him right away, even though he gave me a clean bill of health two days before Christmas.
The short of the story is that I’m fine, but call me if you’re planning something fun, and I’ll bring on the more!
“And I want to do so much more before we get there.”
Django Haskins, “Our One Mistake”
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