Flashback Friday: when I thought I was dunzo
How do you react in emergency situations? + warning, graphic photos but worth the read!
I published the below same time last year and I wanted to bring it up again to remind you of something very important.
You can do hard things. Really, you can!
How do you react in emergency situations? Are you cool as a cucumber, swiftly moving like a ballerina gliding up the stage? Or are you a frazzled mess? Or are you a deer in headlights, frozen for a bit? I don’t think there’s a “bad” answer to this. We are all different in our reactions to certain situations but I do think we all can muster through difficult times.
Two years ago, I thought I was a goner.
On Halloween Eve 2020 I went boogie boarding. We were staying in a beach-front rental 1 hour away from home while it was being remodeled. My oldest (6) and I got into our wetsuits and grabbed our boards. My youngest (3) stayed back on the deck playing with his toys.
I was excited. I got off work early and had visions of good memories for this day. No one else was on the water and I was going to have fun riding waves with my kid.
About 20 steps in, I screech, “OW! A rock hit me really hard!”
I look down and pull my knee up. Something that looks like a stick is stuck on the top of my foot.
“Mama, what is that!”
“I don’t know,” I said, bending over, awkwardly hoisting my leg up. I try to pull it out.
Nope. That stinker is going nowhere. Now it’s bleeding.
“Mama!” my daughter cries. The sight of me trying to pull out the foreign thing from my foot sends her fleeing. She’s already halfway up the sand toward the deck.
I hobble back. It really hurts. In my foot, in the bones in my foot, between my toes, oh my god, it’s now shooting up my leg. Keep it cool, Steph, you’ve got this.
As I climb up the ladder from our beach to the house’s deck, I see my daughter hiding behind the stairwell. Both kids are sobbing. I tell them it’s OK, mama’s fine.
Why is it all of a sudden so hot? I failed to put a bathing suit top underneath my wetsuit earlier. I don’t want my chest hanging out while I have some other thing hanging out from my foot, so I kept it on.
I grab my phone and look up images of “stingray bite” and confirm that’s what happened.
At this point, I need to make a decision. My mental list goes like this:
This hurts like a mofo.
There’s a lot of blood on the floor.
Dang it, I’ll need to clean that blood later.
Am I going to die?
Everyone is gone. My husband is on a fishing trip, my nanny is long gone for the day, my nephew is visiting his mom in the desert, my cousin is in the remodeled house 1 hour away, watching our dog. Everyone else I know lives an hour away.
I have no idea what happens to people with stingray barbs stuck in them. I do not have time to google.
Didn’t Steve Irwin die of this?
Maybe I’ll just lose my foot.
Owwwwww.
I called 911. As we wait, I’m comforting my crying kids. But this pain is shooting up and down my leg. It feels like labor in my foot, with contractions, and without the epidural.
But here I am pretending like I’m cool. Mom’s cool. We’re cool. Right? I still don’t know if death is coming.
Someone rip this wetsuit off me!
The paramedics arrive. I didn’t realize how low the ceilings felt in this rental until 5 buff guys in uniform crowded around the clutter of seashell-shaped decor and beach theme word-vomit signs, like “Relax, you’re at the beach” or “If you’re not barefoot you’re overdressed.”
I pull one of the paramedics to the side, turn our faces away from my kids.
“Hey man, I have two questions for you. One, am I going to keep my foot? And, two, am I going to live?”
He chuckles.
But I’m fucking serious.
“Yes, ma’am you’ll be fine,” he said. “Did you soak it in hot water already?”
“No, is that all I had to do?! Should I have not called you?”
“Yes, absolutely you should have called us. We need to help you take out the barb. Do you have anyone nearby to help you?”
“No, why?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my face.
“Your kids won’t be able to ride with you in the ambulance,” he said. “There isn’t safe seating for children. They’ll need to be driven separately by a social worker and you’ll see your kids at the ER. Are you OK with that?”
Excuse me?
“Um. No, not really. What is another option?”
“You can drive yourself and your kids in your own car,” he said.
I look down at my throbbing foot, which is my right foot – my driving foot. I feel like I’m about to pass out. Handle it, Steph!
“I guess we’ll go with plan A.”
Before we go, I change out of my wetsuit, thank goodness. On the ride to the hospital, I laughed with the paramedics about how I thought I was going to die. How Steve Irwin did die from a stingray. And how I failed to remember the animal was 220 pounds and the barb was pierced through his chest and heart.
Then I pray I’ll see my kids again, which I do. They walk into the ER with the following in their arms: a toy, a book, and ice cream. They are thrilled to be here, where they get special treatment from nurses and doctors… and TV!
I’m hit with pain killers directly into my foot and it does practically nothing. More labor feelings in my foot. It’s excruciating. Poison up and down my leg, the venom feels like it has traveled to my upper thigh.
But my kids are here. I need to stay calm.
After what felt like forever, the doctor pulled out the barb with a very sophisticated, high-tech medical tool.
Pliers.
All was fine in the end. My kids asked to go back to the ER the next day. My sister, who picked me up from the hospital, wiped the blood off the floor. I dressed up as a limping Slanta (duh, it’s Slash + Santa).
Typically I have a solid village close by but, this time, it was just me. Sometimes I wonder if I can handle tough things on my own. I guess I can.
I’m grateful my kids were there because if they were not around I’m pretty sure I would have been a big mess, flailing and wailing, snot streaming down my face, in a ball on the floor. My kids helped me keep it together. They reminded me I can and need to be strong.
My doctor said to me before she yanked out the barb, “You’re handling this very well. Typically people who come in here with stingray stings sound like they’re in labor. There’s a guy down the hallway with a hernia who is screaming like he just got stung by a stingray.”
Substack Reads: Rising Writers
This is a play on Substack Reads — a curated list of Substack articles I enjoy. My version includes authors with smaller subscriber numbers (in the hundreds).
wrote a beautiful and moving piece about her dad’s death and life. It resonated with me very deeply. In 2008, after learning about stage 4 cancer, my dad didn’t want help at the hospital, he just wanted to go home and die. My sister also got a tattoo after my dad’s death and he also hated tattoos. I also deeply understand depression and the medication it comes with and the life ending thoughts that can enter our minds. Kathryn, you’re not alone and thank you for writing this work that was deeply personal for you but I hope you know it likely helped many others who have lost their parents. hits it on the head with the crime committed on our families — the rush. I am constantly calibrating, aiming for the sweet spot of slowness and getting things done. She talks about social media breaks (I can relate) and just taking the time to be present with your family. It’s a lovely piece and reminder for all of us moms! is a talented artist and graces us with her sketches! I started following artists who draw, paint, sketch on and it’s a lovely way to feel inspired. You need to check out her work and for those of you who don’t practice art, you should. It doesn’t matter if you’re “good” at it. 
I’ll leave you with this quote:
Ouch!! I smiled reading this, not because it is funny... but your writing really made it feel light. Such a great reminder and our kids really do help ground us!
Holy crap. Somehow you made this very funny but I felt your pain at the same time. And I love how you wanted to make sure your kids were ok more than anything. It's hard being a mom :) Happy you're ok!