Yesterday morning, it
actually happened to My Sweet Husband (MSH). A copperhead snake bit him on his
left index finger. If you’re unfamiliar with copperhead snakes, Google
them. They aren’t nice. They're not usually deadly. Not as fatal or harmful as
rattlesnakes or water moccasins. But they’re mean, scary and painful. For a
small child? They’d be unbelievably horrific.
MSH had been out at 5:30 a.m. walking Buddy Boo Bear when he saw a copperhead
curled up near our outdoor kitchen. He came running in to get a gun to shoot
it—hoping it didn't slither off. He got it. A couple of hours later, he
decided it was time to clear out the ivy in the garden near our bedroom door.
He knows I love my ivy. It is, however, a safe haven for those evil serpents. Our bedroom is on the side of the house where six other copperheads have
decided—in the past three years—to live. (They've ultimately paid the price for choosing our home to be their place of residence. Sorry. We
simply cannot let them stay. Not with grandkids running around. And Senior
Citizens. And everyone in between.)
Because MSH does 98% of
our outdoor work—mowing, weedeating, plowing, trimming, clearing, planting, watering, etc.—he wears
“snake guards” most of the time. These go on his shins and are good protection
against snakes—especially when used in conjunction with jeans, heavy socks and
boots. He had his snake guards and leather gloves on yesterday as he worked. He’d been at it for almost two hours when it happened. Just a few minutes before the
attack, I’d stuck my head out our door, before getting into the shower, to
check on him. He’d said he was nearly finished.
As I emerged from the
shower and was beginning to put a little makeup on, I heard our door open and
this: “I’ve been bit by a copperhead.”
ELC (as I ran out of our bathroom and
entered our bedroom):
NO. NO. NO. NO. Tell me you’re kidding.
MSH:
I’m not. I’ve been bit. Call the ER and ask them what we should do before we head
that way.
He then got his gun and
went back out the door. I heard two shots as I was trying to look up the
hospital phone number in our kitchen. I was shaking so much I could barely turn
the phonebook pages.
I got a recording. They
were going to answer calls in the order in which they came. Uh, NOPE. I
hung up and dialed 911. The nice young woman talked to me as I dressed and told
me we should ice the bite and MSH should elevate his hand above his heart. She asked me for
a phone number. (I thought I was giving her my cell number.)
MSH’s heart. Oh, my. He had his
second heart attack in two years this past March. It was beyond frightening for him, me and
all of our family. Now I was worried about his heart and blood pressure. I
quickly finished dressing (let me tell Y'all I looked lovely and, of course, I'm being sarcastic) and we raced out the door. MSH stayed calm. He even joked a
little as I drove 90 miles an hour down the highway to our hospital—seventeen
miles south—with my flashers on. Five miles down the road his phone rang. (I’d
given the 911 Operator his cell number!). He answered. She told MSH he should
NOT ice it or elevate it. He said: “Okay! Thank you so very much!”
We love our ER. We were extremely lucky as a doctor we’ve known for over thirty years was there yesterday. She
knows us. She knows snake bites. She said MSH was lucky he had gloves on. He
did get venom—because there was significant swelling in his finger, his
knuckles and a small amount to his wrist. His blood pressure went from 220 down
to 170 back to 200 down to 180 back to 200 for the first three hours. Then it
settled at 170. We had a precious nurse who took good care of him. She gave him an antibiotic, some meds for his stomach—in case
he started feeling sick—and measured his finger and hand every twenty minutes
to monitor the swelling. The doctor decided he wouldn’t need the anti-venom—not
unless his finger took a turn for the worse over the next few hours or days.
She told us what to watch out for and sent us home. MSH was happy happy HAPPY.
On the way home, I called our Sheriff’s
Office and asked the lady that answered the phone to tell the 911 operator we’d
both talked to that MSH was fine! That her calm and encouraging help had been a
blessing to us and we’d always be grateful to her for her kindness. The lady
answering the phone said it was “Amy” and Amy'd be thrilled I’d called back.
That they seldom ever knew what happened to most people after the initial 911
call. What would we do without these dedicated people?
MSH wasn’t ever in too much
pain. He slept fairly well last night and has had a good day. He has strict
orders to stay quiet and cool for the rest of the week. He knows he’ll be
answering to TLC if he wavers from his orders. He’s much more afraid of her
than moi!
I am considering the
possibility of putting MSH up for adoption. (Buddy Boo Bear will have to be part
of the package—since he adores MSH and only likes me when MSH isn’t around.) I
told MSH I could not take another ER trip, on his behalf, for another year. Or
two. Or three. He’s going to make me have a heart attack or stroke. Sheesh.
Living out here, in the sticks, we’re used
to seeing lots of God’s creatures. Armadillos. Scorpions. Centipedes. Hundreds
of spiders. Big spiders. Foxes. Bobcats. Coyotes. Raccoons. Possums. Skunks. I’m pretty sure I’d take any
of these creatures over even the smallest garden snake. Copperheads? I
want them banished from our country casa and place. Forever. PLEASE.
Wishing Y’all a week
that is SNAKE-FREE !
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