Jun 15 2009
In the last 8 years, Martin has suffered a spate of mishaps, injuries and illnesses which is why he often says: “The farm is trying to kill me.”
A little melodramatic, don’t you think? I’d say that bad luck and ineptitude are likely factors, more so than intent-to-kill by an inanimate property. But I’ll admit that his accidents are numerous…I thought they were even blog-worthy. The only trouble was that they were ancient history. I needed a news peg.
Martin: “A what?”
Me: “You know, a news peg. Something fresh to make your previous accidents relevant.”
Martin: “So a recent illness? What about my sinus infection?”
Me: “That has nothing to do with the farm. Besides, it’s boring.”
Martin: “So what are you saying? You want me to get hurt….so you can blog about it?”
Me: “Not seriously hurt. Not like maimed. Like funny hurt. Like when you nearly electrocuted yourself.”
But I’m jumping ahead. Getting zapped wasn’t Martin’s first incident. I think it started with illness. Not long after we moved in, Martin was diagnosed with histoplasmosis (doesn’t that just roll off the tongue?). He’d been sick for a while and when a doctor x rayed his chest, he looked like a tuberculosis patient. Histoplasmosis is caused by a fungus found in soil and in material contaminated by bird droppings. Martin got sick right after we finished cleaning the hay loft which had been populated by a colony of pigeons.
Next up: Martin stepped on a nail while rebuilding a run-in shed. This is a day that sealed my fate as a big meanie. The way Martin tells the story, you’d think that I planted the nail myself and guided his foot toward it. He forgets that I drove him to the hospital that night and they cleaned out the puncture wound and gave him a tetanus shot.
Instead, he dwells on the fact that he was in pain afterwards, and while I sympathized (I think I gave him an aspirin), I disappeared to show my horse, run errands, that kind of thing. At couple days later I was at work when a doctor called to say that he’d done a partial operation to drain the pus from Martin’s foot but Martin was being admitted to the hospital for at least a week for antibiotics. Apparently, he was dangerously close to losing his foot to a septic infection. Okay, enough of that story. Let’s move on.
Let’s see, what was #3? Oh yea, I got him a horse, named Huck, who tried to impale him on a fence.
Alright, I witnessed the event and can confirm that Huck did indeed try to kill him by crashing into a fence while Martin was aboard. But since then, I’ve ridden that horse bareback, backwards and buzzed on booze. I’ve carted him all over the place to show and fox hunt and he’s packed me around. He’s even been loaned to a therapeutic riding program where disabled children rode him. So let’s just say Martin & Huck, oil & water.
This brings us to the near electrocution. Martin shocked himself senseless while trying to increase pressure to our well.
And then he nearly blew the house up trying to prime the furnace.
Am I forgetting anything? I guess that’s it.
About a week ago I started nagging Martin to pick up a chainsaw, tackle a tangle of poison ivy, go climb a ladder… come on, do something I can blog about it…. Around that time, I started to feel flu-ish and achy. The achiness spread from my knees to my hip bones, back, neck, ribs, even to my jaw. I felt like I had a mouthful of cavities. Pretty soon I was hobbling around like a nursing home resident. Where’d I put that cane?
I finally went to the doctor who jotted down my gripes before saying congratulations, you’ve got Lyme Disease. He pulled some blood but even without the results, he said I was certainly lymie-looking. No huge surprise since the disease is transmitted by deer ticks and around here, deer outnumber us about a million to one. Meanwhile the dog carts ticks in the house like she’s public transportation.
Fortunately, treatment is effective and straight-forward: antibiotics. But as I hobbled out to the car with my prescription in hand, I couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t brought this on myself. If hounding Martin to get sick or injured for my entertainment hadn’t been bad karma. Or, if Martin hadn’t told the dog, “Here Maisie, why don’t you rest your tick-ridden body right here….”
Oh well. I’ll just take my antibiotics and bide my time. Another mishap is bound to befall Martin. Tis the season of chores. Besides, I’ve seen the tractor sizing him up.
Even if his luck changes and he’s no longer accident prone, there’s always someone else who’s ready to inherit his legacy: