Why is it, that trying to help never actually helps? I can name a number of times that I “tried to help” and made things worse but the one that stands out most in my mind was when mom was either in Missouri helping Grandpa or in Victorville helping Uncle Ron with his store. Dad and I remained in Ventura and went to Bryer’s Ice Cream and walked home.
One afternoon, after school, I came into the house and noticed dust. It is probably the first and last time I noticed dust in that house. I don’t know if it is my lack of observation (probably) or that Ventura didn’t have all that much dust. I like to pretend it’s the latter but I’m not that dumb.
I sat there staring at the dust on the phonograph and realizing that I could help. So, I did. I got out the lemon oil and went to town on the phonograph. It shone. I probably used way too much but it looked so gorgeous. As I backed into the corner by the couch, somethign happened but I didn’t know it.
I crawled out of the corner once I was done with the back leg and winced. Something hurt. I glanced behind me and that awful tingling that you get when something disgusting shows itself came over me. A crochet hook hung from the ball of my foot. I tried to move it but I almost vomited at the wave of pain that followed. I cannot believe to this day that something so small could hurt so much.
I crawled, fighing back nausea with each movement, to the phone and grabbed it and the phone book. I flipped frantically through the pages and called every appliance repair shop in the greater Ventura area. None were where Dad worked. I couldnt’ find the right name but I tried them all anyway. I don’t know, to this day, if they didn’t have a yellow page ad, if we were missing an ad, or if in my haste, I just overlooked the only one that would have helped.
Out of desperation, I called Mrs. Santos. I knew that she’d help. She was like a second mother as much time as Noemi and I spent together and as much as I saw her at school. She’d never be MOM but she had that comforting presence that moms have and I trusted her.
She’d done a similar thing as a small child and ran one through her thumb. They came over immediately and my cringing at her touch was enough to send her to the phone. She tried to find dad’s work number too but couldn’t. (She was probably panicked).
The next thing I knew, an ambulance and a fire truck were outside and paramedics wrapped my foot in such a way as to not to joggle it as they wheeled me into the ambulance. I was at the hospital for a logn time. I was scared. I didn’t know what they would do, how they ould get it out, and what Dad would say about it.
From what I learned later, they were just shy of making me a temporary ward of the court so they could help me when Dad arrived. Somehow they surmised that they could pull it out without the hook ripping out half my foot. Thanks to pain medications and such, I didnt’ feel a thing for a couple mor ehours.
As we sat at the table eating dinner, Dad, with extremely careful tones, asked why I hadn’t called him at work. I tried to explain. I must have cried. Like most men, dad didn’t do well with tears but he tried. He asured me that I wasn’t in trouble or anything but that he would have preferred to “remove it himself.”
I know my eyes bugged out. I remember thinking, “Thank- you Lord for not letting me find that number.” I was certain that God had shown mercy on me. I admit that my theology was a bit faulty but I still am a bit grateful for whatever made Mrs. Santos and I blind to the phone number that Dad showed me a few short hours after I fought to find it myself.
