Helloooooooo, cognizance.
Sister Here, who lives here in the woods, just had a birthday last week. Sister There, who doesn’t live here, will have hers the end of this week.
Huh.
I’m trapped in a fortnight of sibling memories.
Sometimes memories swirl and billow like cream in coffee. I take mine black, so the memories just sit on the bottom until something bobs to the top. Kinda like a Magic Eight Ball.
Up pops “The $500 Dime”.
Oh, yeah.
When we lived in the old home, ArkWood, there were only two bedrooms. All three of us kids were in there, draped over a single bed and a set of bunk beds. We moved to a three bedroom ranch about 10 years later. Since I was the lone male offspring, I got my own room. Granted, it was the smallest of all the cells, but it was single occupancy. The sisters, being of the same gender, had to share a bedroom. It was an unwritten law that would only be broken by college and marriage.
Like gender does not guarantee like temperament. They pretty much fought over everything. My half. My this. My that.
I only had to argue with the chihuahuas who: A) didn’t take up all that much room, and B) had no opposable thumbs.
One evening Sister Here found a dime in the room. A whole dime. This was when a dime could get you a Baby Ruth the size of a Louisville Slugger. Or about a ½ mile of those little candy dots on calculator paper. A dime was a lot bigger then.
She was holding her windfall when Sister There came crashing through the door. Thinking quickly and, yet, not wisely, Sister Here pops the dime into her mouth thereby following that old adage used in egging people into bets.
(Think about it - you know it.)
I think that Sister There said something to trigger a retort out of Sister Here. The response came out. The dime went down.
Yep. She swallowed it.
Panic ensued. The dime had descended into oropharynx purgatory, stuck in the throat. Sister Here ran to Mom who in turn ran to Dad who in turn dialed up the volunteer Fire Department. Me and the chihuahuas got out of the way, not knowing where to run.
The ambulance showed up about 5 minutes later. Ob walked into the living room and knelt by Sister Here who was crying and panicked. Ob, with his huge form and gentle quiet voice, had an immediate calming effect on all of us.
For the last thousand years, Ob had been driving a school bus, volunteering on the Fire Department, and being the athletic trainer for every sport at the high school.
Not much could get Ob to go down Panic Alley.
He asked questions to Sister Here and Mom and Dad.
Yep, the dime was still in there. Yep, she swallowed it.
Yep, to hide it from Sister There.
Ob looked at Sister Here.
“Probably best not to do that again, okay?”
This brought an affirmative nod from five heads. Seven if you count the chihuahuas.
Ob motioned for the other guys to put the subject on the gurney. They strapped her in and wheeled her out of the house, Mom and Sister There walking along beside her as they crossed the lawn.
Ob had stayed behind to talk to Dad. I stayed behind because I didn’t know what else to do. Ob was pretty serious, actually showing a bit of concern.
“Well, Bob, we need to know which pipe the dime went down. If it’s in her windpipe, we’re lucky so far. It must be on its side. If it flips over, it’ll cut off her air. I’ve seen a tracheotomy done before – but I’ve never tried it. But I can if I have to.”
Dad didn’t hesitate as he patted Ob on the arm.
“Do what ya gotta do, Ob.”
Ob nodded and was out the door. The ambulance took off. Our family station wagon, full of dime-free family, was only three minutes behind.
We sat in the waiting room. Dad was the go-between, from nurse to family.
Prepping her for a “procedure” if needed.
Taking her to x-ray.
Waiting for the x-rays.
Not in the windpipe.
You can come on back to see her.
Dad sat with me and Sister There while Mom went back.
Dad explained they gave her a piece of bread to push the dime down. We’d have to hang around until the dime came out.
I decided right then and there that the medical profession wasn’t for me. Someone in a white coat was gonna have to make sure the dime had come out.
And it wouldn’t be in Playdough.
Awhile later we all came home. Sister Here only got a mild scolding. (You don’t get the razor strap for near-death transgressions.) We were tucked into bed, all of us grateful we still had a full house of family.
Later that night, Dad tucked something into a corner of the bottom drawer of Mom’s bedroom dresser, the Important Stuff Drawer.
It was a little plastic bag that held a $500 dime.