Author’s note: I owe you all an apology and an explanation. I made a decision a few months ago to pause my blog. I was writing an historical fiction and found myself a bit overwhelmed with that challenge plus my weekly blog. My novel needed my undivided attention. It worked, my transcript is finished, let the editing begin, and now I can return to my blog. I’m sure many have moved on and quite frankly not missed a beat, but I did owe you this explanation. I hope you enjoy this blog. You can read it or listen, as you prefer.

I took a serious fall not so long ago.

Well I’m 75 now, so falling is to be expected. It’s an ageing thing. My most dangerous fall was at my daughter Sophie’s house in Errington BC. I was chasing Edith, our French Bulldog and tripped on a riser. So let me try to recapture the moment.

As I recall it, which is my way of letting you know my memory is a little unreliable these days,  I was in that moment launched at some velocity and for a fleeting second, parallel to the floor, moving with drone like purpose toward my intended target. Actually, it was not my intended target, it was simply what was straight ahead in my moment of peril: A door frame and a very heavy piece of furniture. I didn’t have long to reflect on my flight path, nor time enough to manoeuver my body out of harms way. My shoulder stopped my forward momentum with an uncompromising thud. Simultaneously, my head struck freshly redone shelving. When I say ‘freshly redone’ what I mean to explain is that my clever, industrious daughter Sophie had decided to experiment with cement surfaces on shelving. This was her most recent DIY project.

Two thoughts.

The first, it looked beautiful. I’d never seen anything quite like it and believe I got a very close view of it, as I careened headlong towards it. Secondly, immovable. Concrete shelving is absolutely, immovable.

Head meets concrete. Concrete cuts head.

A phonetic symphony ensued as the inevitable moment of impact arrived.

“Slam!”

“Ooph!”

“Ouch!”

“Aaarrrhhh!”

Although one moment of pride if I may, not one profane vulgarism escaped from my mouth. My daughter Sophie and my granddaughter Rowe witnessed the whole thing and were by all accounts horrified. Sweet Rowe was very young at the time and had only witnessed ‘Bumpy’ as a fun loving, playful grandfather. This for her, was a curveball.

My injury was not insignificant, including a serious head wound and what I thought at the time was a broken arm, or shoulder. The pain was very severe but I immediately found myself being held safely in the arms of my wife Mac, reminded once again as our family has been on many occasions, that if you can possibly swing it, marry a nurse. They are so handy to have around at moments such as this.

“My arm, my arm!” I pleaded with Mac, “My arm is broken.” The pain was searing but my pleadings went unheard. “Sweetheart” she said in her only non nurse acknowledgment, “You have a serious head wound and I am making a choice between keeping you from bleeding to death or helping you deal with your shoulder injury.” Even in my addled distress I acknowledged that she was probably making the right choice. An ambulance was called and we waited.  I do recall a particular concern that I had in that moment, lying prone, bleeding profusely, in significant pain, my head being held closely on Mac’s lap.

“Mac, Mac” I whispered.

“Yes, dear, what is it?”

“I don’t want to go the hospital.”

Mac was confused. “Why not?”

I pulled her closer.

“Because I’m not wearing any underwear.”

And with that Nurse Mac was immediately replaced by Wife Mac, raised eyebrows and tones of disapproval included. A few minutes later the ambulance arrived with two experienced, rubber gloved men. They surely would be more responsive to my report of a broken arm or shoulder. Disappointment followed on, in short order.

“No, Tony, may I call you Tony?” said the older one.

I nodded approval.

“No, you are bleeding very profusely, so your arm is going to have to wait. Otherwise you could exsanguinate.”

Good Lord, healthcare workers and first responders, they do deal in a Conspiracy of Confusion. Who uses ‘exsanguinate’ in moments of great personal distress!?

In fairness though, any time an ambulance worker uses the word ‘exsanguinate’ it is to underscore the seriousness of the moment. Problem was, in that moment, I was in no position to understand what ‘exsanguinate’ meant. I studied Latin for many years in school (For the sceptics among you, that is to say all of you: Mr. Green, Grade 8/9, Kelowna High School, 1962-1963), so given time I can break down most words. A pain free Tony would have recalled ‘sanguis’ the Latin root word for ‘blood’. ‘Ex’ is a Latin root word for ‘out of’, as in you are going to run out of blood.

Were I not in such dreadful pain, I would have quickly extrapolated (‘extra’ Latin root word for ‘outside’ and ‘polate’ Latin root word for ‘extending an idea’) that I was at risk of bleeding out but I was in the grip of awful pain, certain in my distress that I had broken something, equally aware that I was singularly unable to bring that to anyone’s attention.

As an aside, I am sure you can now understand how I was unable to attract the attention of any human female throughout my grade school years. I bear no obvious scars from that dry spell, and I have had time to reflect on my thirsty years. I have come to understand that explaining the Latin root word for ‘kiss’ to a young woman I might have fancied, might well have given them pause. Even after I explained that the Latin root word for ‘kiss’ is ‘oscul’, from ‘osculum’ the act of kissing, or for the mathematicians among you, the contact between curves and surfaces, nothing, na da, not even a peck on the cheek. Apparently, there is a moment in the romantic wanderings of human exchange where no words, not even words of edification, should be heard. The act of kissing I came to understand later, is most often enjoyed in wordless suspension. Unfortunately,  for someone who enjoys words as much as I do, this awareness came much too late. There is little doubt I  missed out on countless kisses.  By the way, (‘edification’ from the Latin root word ‘aedificare’, to instruct). Good Lord, I am trapped in a word maize of my own making!

But I digress. I was transported to the Parksville Urgent Care Centre, by ths time down a pint or two, heavily bandaged, the bleeding unabated. The emergency doctor was quick to act.

“Ah, great” I thought to myself, “Finally someone who will hear me about my broken arm.”

“Yes well, choices Tony, choices.” pointing to my head wound. “Let’s make sure first that you don’t exsanguinate to death.”

And there it was. Two thoughts crossed my mind.

First, I realized that Nurse Mac and Doc Sanguine were in cahoots, deciding between the two of them that bleeding to death took priority over my very broken arm. Hmmm. To this day I doubt the integrity of their choice.”

Secondly, “He knows I know Latin. How many patients would he use ‘exsanguinate’ with?!”

Exactly, very few.

My arm, by the way was not broken and I did not exsanguinate so one supposes , the ambulance workers, Nurse Mac and Dr. Sanguine might have known better all along. I’ll leave that for you to adjudicate.

(‘adjudicate’ Latin root word ‘judex’ meaning judge, ‘adjudicare’ Latin root word for ‘you be the Judge’)