Stephen King, Do I Have a Story for You!

On January 22nd of this year, if I had understood that I was being thrust into the maw of the medical monster, I'd have shown up with more than a black and red plastic spatula.

It was the kind of frigid morning I long ago left Northern New York State to escape. I'd decided to sleep in when the phone rang, too early to be anything but rude.

"You want me to do what?" was my equally impolite response to the sunny voiced young woman who'd called to obliterate my warm, lazy day.

A moment before, I'd been snuggled under my bright yellow comforter. Hunkered down where it didn't matter that my hair looked as if it had been assaulted from behind by a wrought iron frying pan. Now, I was supposed to get myself ASAP to Seattle's Pill Hill, nicknamed for its preponderance of medical facilities.

As the crow flies, this is not a long journey. Crows, however, are not concerned that our island has no bridge. Nor do they give a flap that on January 22nd, one ferry boat was out of service. Which meant that getting to the mainland would be even more of a pain in the patoot than usual.

Meanwhile, I hopped from foot to freezing foot in the gravel patch that passes for a driveway on Pink Tractor Farm and stared at my red Jeep Wrangler, covered from roof to bumper with a thick coat of frost.

Back home in the Northeast, I'd have been better prepared, but the Northwest is known for its mild winters. The narrow, uneven surface of a black and red plastic spatula was my sole anti-frost device.

A few ineffectual scrapes later, I was inching my way from then to now. Had I known how rocky the road would be, I'd have remained under the yellow comforter.

It is currently another anomalous winter in the Northwest, blizzards and deep chill compounding the frost to increase patoot pain exponentially. Fortunately, my hero husband recently acquired a bona fide ice scraper.

Unfortunately, the red Wrangler now auto-pilots to Pill Hill, where the maw of the medical monster has grown to a chasm over which I dangle, holding on for truly dear life to the nearest fang.

You've probably heard the hospital horror story where the trusting patient enters with a hangnail and ends up an amputee. I've been inserted into my personal version of that tale. Anyone who can say, "Possible pending litigation," will understand why I don’t share the details.

All I can tell you is that I now face surgical procedures #8 and #9, instead of only #8. The added attraction involves Lavage, and this lilting French has nothing to do with charming cafes or pain chocolat. Picture instead internal power hosing with a concoction strong enough to decimate the beasties in residence and maybe some healthy stuff as well.

As I await another phone call and another command appearance, I wonder. Does it sound powerless and futile to vow that if they screw up again I'll smack them with my spatula?