Did I Dial 911, Or Was It The Butterball Hotline?
In any event, problem solved!
I’d been experiencing shortness of breath and pain radiating down my left (pitching) arm, but I chalked that up to all the softball. Then yesterday morning I remembered that I haven’t played softball since fifth grade, and started to get a wee bit concerned. By lunchtime I was seeing double, had excruciating abdominal discomfort and had broken out in hives.
So I did what they always tell you to do in these situations: I phoned 911. I had to trust I had dialed correctly (double vision, remember?) When I heard a person’s voice on the other end of the line (maybe — the increasing ringing in my ears made listening a challenge), I launched right into my symptoms. I felt quite foolish reciting what now seemed to me a litany of really minor issues: bleeding from my pores, massive hair loss, uncontrollable sneezing. Swollen feet and ankles. Projectile vomiting. Yada yada.
As I wound up my silly little tale of woe, I apologized for bothering the 911 operator, who surely had true emergencies to deal with! To my surprise and delight, though, she was super helpful. I vowed to follow her suggestions to the letter, so as not to waste her valuable time.
First, I rinsed myself off in the sink, making sure to remove the little packet containing my liver and gizzard (I never dreamed my body parts came in easy-to-remove packaging!) The next bit of advice took some doing: finding a pan big enough to sit down in. I excused myself for a moment and went out to the shed for the plastic kiddie pool we keep for when the grandkids visit. Perfect!
The next step was to slather myself with butter. I took a pound from the fridge and used it all; soon my skin was glossy and smooth head to toe…a beauty treatment AND sound medical counsel too! God bless 911! Next, I was told to preheat the oven to 325 degrees, which made sense as I was now experiencing the chills. A little lollabout in my kiddie pool by the open oven door would be just the ticket to warm me up!
My phone-in miracle worker assured me I’d be ready in 4–5 hours. It made sense that recovery would take a while, considering I was now having back spasms, and appeared jaundiced too (but that could have been the butter). Thanking her again, I hung up, proud that I’d been proactive on my own behalf.
Thinking back over our exchange, it does seem slightly odd that she kept saying “turkey,” but I interpreted that as akin to “honey” or “sweetie” — one of those place-holders folks use when they don’t know someone’s name. I also puzzle over my “recommended temperature” — surely it was 98.6 and not 185? But perhaps that’s metric system!
You know what, though? 4–5 hours later, when I unwound myself from the little pool and sponged off the butter, I DID feel better — much better, in fact! My symptoms had virtually disappeared, and in their place was the radiant glow of good health (and residual butter).
I should call them back and find out how to reinstall my little bag of organs, I guess. Then I’ll be good as new!
