Slightly Off the Mark

But my wife and I are of defiant stock, and we accepted an invitation to go out for a fun-filled Robert Burns Night. I don't generally like driving at night, because that's when the depressed deer come out to throw themselves in front of cars, with the final cry of "I can't take another winter outdoors!"

Still, Robert Burns Night is like Christmas in Scotland, and according to the DNA test I'm 29% Scottish. (And 2% Cameroon, which is in Africa but sounds Scottish.) Burns is Scotland's National Poet, and I'm all for celebrating writers.

You've probably heard, at least once every year, one song Burns had a hand in: Auld Lang Syne. My personal favorite of his is his poem, "To a Louse".

So we made toasts, piped in the haggis, and of course ate neeps and tatties, which I hope aren't related to haggis. It wasn't completely Scottish, because we didn't drink alcohol, and the haggis was meatloaf. Haggis is illegal in the United States due to its sheep lungs, which is actually the least objectionable ingredient.

We celebrated late into the night (okay, for two hours), got to see our old doggie friend Watson and visit with his Scottish humans, and on the way home hit a deer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Q13iEaHkqc

If you look carefully, you can see her little white tail bounding away to the right, without a care in the world outside of a sore rump.

 Stupid deer.

And that's why I'm in so much pain as I write this. Not because of a lack of haggis, but because by the point of impact I'd slowed from 60 mph to 30, from standing on the brake while simultaneously pulling back on the steering wheel as hard as I could with both hands, while two of my most important body openings slammed shut and Emily yelled "Ghdeiirreee!"

 Well, that's what it sounded like to me.

It's basically the same reaction I have whenever the dentist fires up that little drill, and all my stressed muscles hurt after that, too. 

I've always loved the acceleration on our Ford Escape, and now I also admire its brakes. 

The steering wheel is no longer perfectly round, and there are some marks in the dash that resemble Emily's fingers, but otherwise we came out okay. The only impact damage to the car was a cracked piece of plastic on the front grill, and some deer hair left behind.

We didn't even have to clean the seats, thanks to the aforementioned puckering effect.

This is only the second deer I've ever hit, despite some extremely close calls, so it could have been worse. Emily wanted to track the deer down and bring it home as steaks, but I talked her out of it. It was probably just some teenage deer on a dare, anyway.

I'm fairly sure Robert Burns was in no way involved, unless the deer were also having a Burns Night and went all in with the whiskey (and haggis).

"Now, Bambi, I think you've had enough."

"No, seriously, hold my whiskey and watch me scare this driver!"

Anyway, I'm now composing a poem about how great our car is, based on one of Burns' poems:

"My love is like a ruby red rose."

Because the Escape is ruby red, you see. Okay, I'll workshop it. Maybe it can come out in 2030.

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I’ve been diagnosed with Acute Mechanical Back Syndrome.

Yeah, I hurt my back.

Chronic pain is different from acute pain, which isn’t cute at all. Years ago I spent several hours at a business fire, most of it with a steel breathing air tank on my back because I was a dumb rookie. You know those big external fuel tanks on the space shuttle? Like that, only on your back. The newer air tanks are lighter, but—too late.

Now my back hurts all the time more or less, but you get used to it. More or less. Chronic back pain is like members of Congress who just keep getting elected, and never quite go away.

Then there’s acute pain. One time at an accident scene I pulled a back muscle while helping to carry a body up an embankment. (Yeah.) I managed to crab-walk into the rescue truck, got home without whimpering too much, and died. This was back in the days when firefighters didn’t admit to pain, or to being without insurance.

That’s acute pain, which I don’t usually get in exciting ways. At fires I’ve had ceilings fall on me, faced venting propane tanks, been on burning roofs, and once I missed a step in a smoke-filled building and fell down a flight of stairs.  (I’ve also done that in buildings that weren’t burning, but I’d rather not talk about it.) Generally I’m a pretty dull person, but every now and then I get into a situation.

But when I really get hurt? Never an interesting story, unless I embellish. This time, for instance, I’ve been laid up for days with intense lower back pain. What did I do? Rescue a kitten from a bear? Put out a flaming cocktail bar? Yank on Chuck Norris’ cowboy hat?

Nope.

I jumped over a puddle.

Yep. Just did an extra-big scissor step over some water, and felt a “twang!” like an overstretched guitar string. Then came the acute pain.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” I told my wife. I wasn’t. I hurt so bad I couldn’t even write. Luckily for me she’s an excellent nurse, although she did overdo it a bit on al the stuff she made me do. Heat, cold, pills, rest—sheesh. On Monday I crawled into the doctor’s office, and he prescribed some stuff that had me counting the little rainbows spinning around on the ceiling. Then he gave me possibly the best advise any man who wants to heal could possibly get:

“Do whatever your wife tells you to.”

Yeah, those breathing air tanks. I had more air and more hair.