Wordplay 2013: Emerging Writers of York Region

C2013-903776-4

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Julie Achtermeier - Stoned for the Holidays

Julie Achtermeier credits her father’s fantastic storytelling and her mother’s whimsical poems for her early love of writing. Although Julie’s humourous short stories recount some of life’s greatest self-deprecating moments, a more serious piece, The Red Devil, was a finalist in the 2012 CBC Canada Writes Short Story Contest. Julie is a freelance writer living in Newmarket with her hilarious husband and two adorable, quirky children. www.julieachtermeier.com.

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It was December 24. We arrived at the cottage just after dinner, much later than planned. There was still wrapping to do, the entire contents of Christmas stuffed into the back of our van. The kids, oblivious to our holiday-related stress, were just thrilled to be spending Christmas at Gramma and Grandad’s. We still called it the cottage, even though they had torn down the decrepit old building and replaced it with a stunning log home where they had retired 15 years ago.

Richard and I passed the kids off to Gramma and Grandad for a Christmas movie and holiday treats while we hid in the bedroom to wrap gifts. Rich poured two generous glasses of wine, and we dug into Christmas wrap and scotch tape. The tension in my shoulders began to ease as the wine coursed through my body, warming my insides and my spirit. Rich hummed away beside me and I smiled.

As Rich passed me the tape, he suddenly yelled out in pain.

What’s wrong? I asked.

I don’t know, he squeaked. It’s my back.

Your back? But you only passed me the tape?

Spasm or something… I just need to stretch… I’ll be right back.

He walked out of the bedroom slowly, bent forward and clutching his side. I went back to wrapping.

A few minutes later when he didn’t reappear, I went looking for him.

Rich? I called out from the bedroom door.

Ya? He wheezed from the dining room where he stood hunched over the edge of the table.

Oh my God, are you alright?

I don’t think so. I think I need to go to the hospital. I think something might have ruptured.

Ruptured? In the dim light of the Christmas tree, sweat glistened across his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut; a fierce grimace etched into his face. It was serious.

I ran downstairs to tell Mom and Dad that I was taking Rich to the local hospital.

We headed out in the van with Rich doubled-over in the passenger seat.

Where does it hurt? I asked.

My back, he breathed.

Like you pulled a muscle or something?

How should I know?

Well, I just mean does it feel like a muscle?

It feels like someone is stabbing me in the back. Does that help?

Sorry.

Just drive faster… please.

Rich, I’ve had an enormous glass of wine, I have to be careful. I don’t want to get pulled over.

Are you drunk?

No, but…

Then drive FASTER!

I stopped talking and concentrated on the road. The dusting of snow we drove through on our way up was now thick and heavy, a near white-out. I hugged the center line while keeping one eye on the speedometer.

We arrived at the emergency room and I helped Rich into triage, where a smiling nurse greeted us. I looked around, not another soul in the waiting room. I sat Rich down and dug out his health card.

What can I do for you? asked the nurse.

I explained his symptoms to the nurse then asked, Is he having a heart attack?

The nurse looked at me with raised eyebrows.

What? I thought back pain was a sign of a heart attack, I said.

That’s arm pain dear, not back pain. I don’t think it’s a heart attack, the nurse replied while taking Richard’s vitals. Sounds like a kidney stone, dear.

No, that can’t be it, Rich wheezed as she led us to an examination room. I’ve never had one of those before.

Well, you have one now, the nurse said. The doctor will be right in.

And he was, following on our heels like a lost puppy.

Howdy, folks! the doctor boomed, holding out his hand. He quickly examined the chart. Looks like you’re trying to pass a kidney stone, Son.

Are you sure? Rich asked, crawling onto the hospital bed and writhing like a wounded feline.

If it looks like a duck, and walks like a duck… then it’s a duck! the doctor answered. If the urine test shows any blood present then that will confirm, indeed, it is a kidney stone. In the meantime, let’s get an IV going and relieve some of that pain. Nurse, morphine for our friend here.

Morphine? That’s a little excessive, isn’t it? I asked.

Don’t argue, Rich squeaked. Bring it… quickly.

The nurse compared passing a kidney stone to giving birth and I tried not to scoff. I gave birth to a ten pound baby. Nice try lady, but nothing compares to that.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the diagnosis was confirmed. On Christmas Eve, in this small town, Rich was passing a kidney stone.

When the pain meds kicked in and Rich was able to get up and move, the nurse instructed him to drink plenty of water and walk around, to move the stone down. The sooner he could pass it, the better.

We did as instructed, pacing the lone, short hall of the hospital; back and forth, back and forth. While I was sympathetic to my husband, my mind drifted to the unwrapped gifts still strewn across the bedroom.

Why are those last few weeks before Christmas always so hectic? I vow every year to plan earlier, get more done ahead of time and not let everything pile up at the last minute. But once again, I was frantically wrapping gifts the night before Christmas, and now it was possible I wouldn’t even get it all done. I called Mom to fill her in, and told her not to wait up.

Rich, now stoned on morphine, giggled as we paced the floor, peeking into empty rooms and checking out all the equipment. He was oblivious to the ticking clock that put us closer to Christmas Day with each passing minute.

On the wall outside the emergency room hung a large bulletin board filled with fishing lures; some single hooks, and others more complicated with spinners and eyes and three huge, daunting barbs. As the nurse passed us in the hall, I asked What are these?

Oh, those are all things we’ve removed from people over the years, She smiled. I tried to hide my shock and shrugged like it was no big deal but I cast my eyes back to the bulletin board with horror. As I looked closer, I noticed bits of paper stuck to each item, listing the date each hazardous weapon had been excised from its victim. Beside the hooks, there were bent nails, railroad spikes and a saw blade.

I steered Richard back towards his room and suggested he take a break from walking.

While we sat trying to have an intelligible conversation, the doctor popped in to check on his progress. Any luck? he asked.

Nope, Rich giggled.

Make sure you’re peeing into the sieve, so you can catch the stone if it comes out. We’ll need to analyze it.

Roger that! Rich replied with a salute. I rolled my eyes and glanced at the clock again.

By now, any slight effects from the wine had long worn off and I secretly wished I had brought the bottle with me. How long was this going to take? Maybe it was a bit like giving birth after all.

The doctor reappeared. Come check this out, he said with a grin.

I caught myself mid-eyebrow-raise and tried to smile instead. We followed him into a small office behind the nurses’ station and he held out a chair for Rich to sit down in front of his computer. He clicked on a file with a video, the cord of the computer mouse catching the corner of his desk.

This is pretty cool, he said. It’s a dramatization of someone going through the ice on a snowmobile and shows you what to do and how to get out. Apparently if you can be patient through the first phase of shock, you actually have several minutes when you are quite capable of pulling yourself out, before hypothermia sets in.

I looked at Rich who stared at the screen wide-eyed.

What the hell, I thought. There’s nothing else to do except look at fish hooks on the wall.

When the video ended, the nurse gave Rich another dose of morphine and we began our hall walks again, avoiding the bulletin board of doom. As we edged closer to midnight, the doctor found us and determined that Rich was not likely to pass the kidney stone tonight, but the worst was over. He wished us luck and sent us home with a pocket full of Percocet and the sieve.

***

I helped Rich out of the car and steered him toward the front door. We were greeted by my parents, who were still up. I gratefully accepted a cup of strong tea. There were still presents to wrap so I divvied everything up, and we all got to work. Rich was feeling no pain and settled on the floor to assemble our son’s race car set. He hummed away loudly and I had to keep shushing him.

Rich, seriously, you’re going to wake the kids. Do you want to explain why you’re putting together the race car set instead of Santa?

Ho! Ho! Ho!

I sighed loudly, and looked around. Nearly done. Instead of visions of sugarplums, mine turned to the soft, cool pillow calling my name.

When everyone turned in for the night, my body sunk into the soft mattress and I clung to my side of the bed, to avoid banging into Rich. His sleep was fitful and restless but he snored on, an annoying side effect of the narcotics. Just as I finally started to doze off, I heard chatter from the kids’ room.

Has Santa come? Is it time to get up? They were by my side before I could peel my eyes open. I nudged Rich and handed him another Percocet and a glass of water, and we plodded to the living room to open gifts. Bleary-eyed but with coffee in hand, I watched the kids squeal and shriek over their gifts while wondering if there would be time for a nap before dinner.

***

My brother and his family arrived while I helped Mom in the kitchen.

Where’s hubby? he asked.

Probably giving birth, I smirked and then quickly filled Steve in on the exciting events of the night before. Steve snapped the cap off a beer and patted my back with mixed sympathy and feigned enthusiasm.

Oh Sis, it’s always something eh?

Mom offered me a glass of wine but I was too scared to imbibe in case Rich should have another emergency. We needed at least one adult who could drive.

At half past three, Rich returned from a long visit to the bathroom. And Baby Jesus was born! he declared, with a drug-enhanced grin. He placed a small jar on the bar and jiggled the barely-visible kidney stone until it clinked the glass. I squinted at the speck of sand then looked at Rich who smiled triumphantly.

Hallelujah! I reached for the wine, and filled my glass to the brim. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

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Corrie Adams - Flight

Corrie Adams spends her days wrangling numbers, but enjoys playing with words at night. She has been featured in More of Our Canada magazine and at CommuterLit.com, and earned first place in the 2012 Era Banner/CFUW writing contest. She lives in Newmarket with her husband, two sons, and an over-active imagination.

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Margaret lay upon a tangle of plaid bedspread and nubby flannel sheets, as still and as quiet as a photograph. The bed was a twin, but seemed bigger; the empty space around her grew larger as she diminished.

The air was heavy and close, and smelled like burnt dust. The