Every family has a story that gets retold at every gathering. Mine starts with a ladder, an attic door, and a hiccup.
I was at my brother Mark’s house helping with a simple job: putting trim around the attic door. Simple. Easy. A one-hour project, tops.
I was up on the ladder with a mouthful of nails, like a seasoned professional. Or a raccoon. Honestly, the line is thin.
Then I hiccuped.
Down it went.
There’s a special kind of silence that falls over you when you realize you’ve swallowed hardware. I stayed frozen on that ladder, doing a quick mental inventory. Nails in mouth: fewer than before. Dignity: also fewer.
Mark, to his credit, did not say “I told you so.” He loaded me into the car and drove me to the hospital in Roanoke Rapids, where an X-ray confirmed what I already knew: there was a nail in there. Not a rumor. Not a feeling. A clearly visible nail, just hanging out in my stomach like it had paid rent.
Roanoke Rapids took one look at the picture and decided this was above their pay grade. So I was loaded into an ambulance for an hour-plus ride to Greenville, in case they needed to operate. Let me repeat that: I was transported by ambulance, with the possibility of surgery, because of trim. Trim! I wasn’t even doing the fancy kind.
In Greenville, the doctors delivered the good news: once the nail made it into my intestine, they were confident it would pass on its own. No surgery. Just one small assignment for me. They explained, very professionally, that I would need to “find the nail in the upcoming days.”
Let me tell you, nothing humbles a grown adult like being handed a job description that involves searching for a nail. I’ll spare you the details. I’ll only say that I took the assignment very seriously, and on day three, the nail and I were reunited. It was the most emotional moment of my week, and I want it on the record that I did not keep it as a souvenir.
You’d think that was the end of the story. But no. On the doctor’s final visit, he casually added that I also had COVID. No symptoms. No cough, no fever, nothing. I went into the hospital with a nail and came out with a bonus prize.
But that’s a whole different story.
What I learned:
- Nails belong in a tool belt or a pouch, never in your mouth. Your mouth is not a tool belt.
- Hiccups do not give a warning, a heads-up, or a courtesy text.
- Your brother will drive you to the hospital, stay by your side, and still never let you live it down.
