Bryson City Tales (27 page)

“Well, Doc, when she opened them thar jaws to come up an' suck up my last crappie, well I just jammed my right hand through her jaws and up through her gills and then jumped back real fast 'afore she could pull me in and drown me.”

He paused as he relived this once-in-a-lifetime event—taking in and then releasing a deep breath. “Well, Doc, she shore didn't like me a pullin' her outta that thar lake. She was a thrashin' and a floppin'. I backed up like a crab, a pullin' her along with me—when all of a sudden-like my brain yelt at me, ‘She's a bitin' you, boy!' I looked down at my arm, and every time she thrashed she done gored me again. Thar was blood a flowin' out of her mouth—and I realized it were mine!”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, I kinda panicked and pulled my arm outta her mouth real fast, but I think that just caused more gashes. Anyway, I threw myself on her and we wrestled a bit. I warn't gonna let her a back in that thar lake. Finally the fight kinda left her. I got my stringer and real careful-like passed it through her gills and done drug her back up to my truck. Come straight up here. Knew Louise would know who to call.”

“What in tarnation is going on?” a new voice blurted out. As the curtains separated, the exclamation continued, “What the blazes . . .” and trailed off as Ray entered the room. “Well, I never . . . ,” he muttered as he looked back and forth between the two patients.

The story was told again, with perhaps even more gusto and bravado. As Ray listened to the tale, I examined the gory mess. The patient's hand was intact, and all the arteries and nerves were uncut and fully functional. But he had row after row of fairly superficial lacerations and a few that ran deeper.

“Looks like you're going to be sewin' awhile, champ,” encouraged Ray.

“Don't you want to stay and help a bit?”

“I'd love to, buddy, but I promised Nancy I'd be home for dinner.” With that and one last chuckle, he was off.

I commenced to cleaning, numbing, and sewing. I don't remember just how many dozens and dozens of sutures it took to close up Mr. Crisp, but it took a couple of hours of nonstop work. I took several breaks to see other patients. It was a good thing the afternoon was light—as we only had one available patient bed in the ER.

After I had finished sewing, while Louise was cleaning and dressing the fisherman's arm, I was writing prescriptions for an antibiotic and a pain medication. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone with a uniform on enter the room. As I turned, the officer introduced himself. “Dr. Larimore, I'm John Mattox with the Park Service. I think you know my daddy—the pharmacist down at Super Swain.”

“Yes, John, I do. It's good to meet you.”

“Well, I was heading home when I heard on the radio a call for the game warden to come over to the hospital to certify a world-record fish. The warden's hung up with a case down near Bird Town, so since I live near here, I told him I'd come and check things out.”

I took John over to Mr. Crisp, who was now sitting up, his color almost back to normal. He gladly, and with even more vigor, retold his story. John listened without a word and then took a small tape measure from his pocket and measured the fish's length and girth. “Man,” he muttered to himself, “that's a big 'un!”

He looked at me. “Do you have a scale?”

“For fish?”

He smiled. “No, for people.”

“Oh,” I stammered, “of course. Right over here.” I pointed to the scale near the entrance to the ER.

“Can I weigh myself?”

What an odd request,
I thought. But, ever the polite ER doctor, I said, “Of course.”

He walked over and stepped on the scale, adjusting the weights. “One hundred seventy-three pounds,” he said, almost to himself. He returned to ER bay 2 and hoisted up the fish in both
of his arms. “Doc, come give me a hand, will you?”

What was he up to?
He carried the muskie over to the scale. “Doc, adjust the scales to see how much I weigh now.”

Now
I could see what he was doing. By subtracting his weight without the fish from his weight with the fish in hand, he could come up with an approximate weight for the fish. As he saw the weight, John's eyes widened, and he whistled. “Man, oh man, this could have been a world record.”

“Could have been?” I whispered. He nodded his head and carried the fish back to her bed. With my help we got her situated again.

“Is that a record, Mr. Ranger?” asked Mr. Crisp anxiously.

John walked over to the sink and washed his hands. “Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. I need to radio this information to the game warden. I'll be back in a moment.”

I also stepped out to finish my dictation on the case. Soon I heard a yelp, as Louise administered a diphtheria-tetanus booster to our fisherman.

Ranger John returned, and I joined him in the ER bay.

“Mr. Crisp, I've got some good news and some bad news. First of all, if this fish is weighed on a certified scale, it's likely a world-record weight, but . . .”

“But what?” croaked our now pallid fisherman.

“Well, that's the bad news.”

What's
the bad news?” “

“This fish won't qualify for any records.”

“Just why the blazes not?” shouted Mr. Crisp.

“Since you didn't catch it with a rod and a line, it won't count. You caught it with your hands. They won't certify a fish for a record unless you catch it with a regulation rod, line, and bait. I'm awfully sorry.”

Mr. Crisp's face registered the terrible shock. His lower lip began to quiver. He bit it as he fought back the tears. He looked at his arm for a moment, sniffled, and then looked over to the fish.

“Well, she's going to make one nice barbecue, I'll tell you that. Might have to find me a pig grill to cook her. I think the Rotary Club might just rent their cooker. Gonna be one nice meal.”

John and I said our farewells to the patient and walked out of the ER together.

“For a minute there I thought I might have to write a prescription for an antidepressant,” I chuckled.

“Well, he's not the first around here to catch some large fish with his hands.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. We've got people who go fishing with underwater electrocuting devices. Even had an occasional fellow using underwater detonation devices. Kills off or shocks a mess of fish and then he just scoops 'em off the surface of the water. Every now and then one of them will try to claim a record fish. Pretty easy to figure out.”

I just shook my head in disbelief.

“Aw, Doc, that's just the beginning of the stories I could tell you.” He winked, and off he went.

I headed back to the recovery room where Mary, the newly operated-on newlywed, was with her husband. She was groggy but responsive. Her vital signs were strong, her abdomen was soft, and her bowel sounds were active. These were all good signs.

As I was leaving, Mary's husband walked out with me. “Dr. Larimore, is she going to make it?”

“I think she'll do fine. Just fine.”

His head dropped. He seemed embarrassed. “Doctor, will this affect our ability to have children?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. The fallopian tubes, the womb, and both ovaries looked good—good and healthy. Most patients with a ruptured appendix like this are able to conceive without a problem—at least the women, that is.”

He smiled. So did I.

“I would expect her to do fine, but I'm glad you got her up here when you did. Just in time.”

“That's what Dr. Cunningham told us.”

Ray and I are both learning,
I thought. “Let's just take it one day at a time, OK?” I turned to leave.

“OK. It's just a sad day for us. I had so many high hopes about this honeymoon. Now it's been kinda ruined.”

I turned back to him. “Let me share something with you.” I paused to gather my thoughts, then continued. “I'm learning that the Lord seems to have a reason for the things he allows. I'm also learning that if we'll trust him, he'll often take the things that appear bad, and make good come from them. Let me encourage you and Mary to look for the good in this. I bet you'll find it. What do you think?”

He tried to smile. “I hope you're right, Doc.”

“I'll drop by later this evening to see how she's doing.”

Mary's husband took a deep breath and suddenly furrowed his brow. “Hey, Doc. What's that smell? Smells like something . . . fishy.”

I smiled. “Probably just a smell of sadness coming from the ER.”

He nodded in empathy.

chapter twenty-three

A GOOD DAY AT THE OFFICE

N
ovember 17 fell on a Tuesday that year. Barb and I had not yet had our usual weekly date night since moving to town. Today was our eighth wedding anniversary, and we were looking forward to the evening alone. Barb had tapped Dorinda Monteith to be our baby-sitter. She was young but came with very high recommendations. Besides, Kate was an easy child to care for.

Gary's voice woke us at the usual time. I listened to the day's news as Barb snuggled close. I melted into her waking embrace. There was a special way we just fit next to each other—content, warm, and relaxed. Our eight-year habit of waking up in each other's arms would, it looked like, survive into yet another year—although a growing Erin Elizabeth was making the fit a bit more challenging.

Suddenly I felt Erin give a swift kick. “Ouch!” Barb responded, as she moved back a bit to “unsquish our little girl.” She giggled at her comment. I began to sing, “Happy anniversary to you, happy anniversary to you, happy anniversary, dear Barb, happy anniversary to you.”

She let out a contented purr, gave me a sweet kiss on the cheek, and sighed.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, Walt, I was just thinking, every time I hear you sing, I realize how good Billy Joel
really
is.” We laughed and embraced again.

I asked Barb where she wanted to go for a romantic dinner. The culinary choices in Bryson City were a bit limited. The downtown grills and cafés, although adequate for lunch, weren't really fitting for a special evening. As much as we had enjoyed our stay and the food at the Hemlock Inn, the family-style seating didn't seem conducive to a romantic evening. We were really left with only three choices—the Frye-Randolph House and the Fryemont Inn in town, or the Holiday Inn over in Cherokee, with a reputation for fine dining. We narrowed our choices to the ones in town and decided on the Fryemont Inn, since we'd already enjoyed a five-star evening at the Frye-Randolph House with the Mitchells and the Cunninghams more than a year before. I called to make the reservations.

“Fryemont Inn, this is Katherine. How may I help you?”came the friendly greeting.

“Hi, I was wondering if you might have room for two in the dining room this evening.”

“I think we might! What time would be best for you?”

“How about 7:00?”

“That will be fine. What name will you use to place the reservation?”

“Larimore.”

“Is this
Dr.
Larimore?” came the reply.

I wondered why she was asking.
What had she heard?
Carefully, I answered, “Uh, yes, it is.”

“Oh, you and Dr. Cunningham helped save the life of one of our guests who was in the honeymoon suite. She had a ruptured appendix. I've been wanting to meet you.”

“Well, I'll look forward to meeting you also. We'll be celebrating our eighth wedding anniversary tonight.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Katherine exclaimed. “Do you and your wife like prime rib?”

“We certainly do.”

“If you want, I can prepare that for you. I just need to know ahead of time.”

“That sounds fine to me.”

“Well, Dr. Larimore, expect us to be prepared. We'll see you all at 7:00.”

Expect us to be prepared.
As I hung up, I wondered what those words meant.

After completing the morning's hospital rounds, I arrived at the office a bit early. Since Mitch and Ray were in surgery much of the time, most mornings I was the only doctor in the office, and my practice was getting busier and busier—for which I was grateful. Rick would be arriving in a week or two, and he'd be able to help carry the load. In addition, we'd be able to begin our maternity care practice. I was looking forward to attending births in our new birthing center.

I had just entered the office when I heard Helen's voice, “Oh goodness, glad you're here. I think we've got a fracture in here.” I followed the shrill warning to the X-ray room.

There was a tremulous young mother with an even more tremulous three-year-old child in her lap. The tot was holding her right arm against her chest.

“She won't let me move it to take an X ray. I tried, because I wanted to have it ready for you. But you came here too early, and she's not cooperating very well,” came Helen's sharp rebuke—directed at everyone in the room but herself.

“Let me have a look, Helen.”

She backed away—I suspect quite unhappily.

I knelt down in front of the scared-to-death pair. I tried to be warm and friendly. No use in getting them any more wound up. It would only make things more difficult later. “Hi there. My name's Dr. Walt.” I smiled at the mom.

She returned a small smile. “I'm Debra Fortner. This here's Julie Lou.”

I looked at the little girl. Right arm pinned to her chest and abdomen. Left thumb deeply sucked into her mouth. I began to touch her shoes. “These are
beautiful
sandals, Julie Lou. Dr. Walt likes them a lot. Can I have them?”

She removed her thumb only a bit, to smile and then to remark, “No. You're too big.”

I smiled back. She was warming up. “Dr. Walt thinks you're right.” I sat on the floor next to her and removed my loafer.Helen was apoplectic. Her mouth hung open in mild horror. I placed my loafer next to Julie Lou's sandal. “Yep, you're sure enough right, Miss Julie Lou. My foot is way bigger than yours. I could never wear your sandals. No way.”