style="font-size:15px;"> I take it the dogs were well-trained because, at the sound of their names, they eventually stopped biting me. One of them held on to my arm awhile, as if caught with food in its mouth and, ashamed to be seen eating, was unsure whether to spit out what it had or go on chewing. But they all retreated, running to Mr. Brady as if looking for some sort of reward.
My pants and jacket were badly torn and I was bleeding, but I didn’t think I was in danger, reassured as I was by the reactions of the Bradys and Professor Bruno. None of them seemed at all concerned about my injuries. The first thing Dougal said as he helped me up from the ground was
– You’re okay. It’s not that bad.
And although I was in pain, I was grateful for his words. Mr. Brady then said
– I don’t know what got into them. They’ve never done anything like this before.
As if seconding Mr. Brady’s point, the three dogs sat up with their pink tongues lolling, looking amiable. Professor Bruno said
– I’ve seen worse wounds than these, Alfie, but I guess you’d better change your clothes.
– I think I should go to the hospital, I answered.
– Why? asked Mr. Brady. You’ve only got a few scratches!
I thought he might be worried that I was angry at him or his dogs, so I said it was only a precaution.
– I suppose caution’s a good idea, said Mr. Brady, but you couldn’t get me into one of the hospitals around here if I wasn’t dying. I don’t trust them.
I thanked him for the warning, but I clung to the idea of having my wounds tended. And, after hasty farewells, we were off, Professor Bruno and I, on one of the most uncertain rides I’ve ever taken.
I was uncomfortable in my wet clothes. In places, my shirt and pants clung to me like a second skin. I was in pain because some of the dogs’ bites had been deep and burned when I moved, as if the saliva were a toxin. Then, too, I felt light-headed and I forgot to ask directions to the nearest hospital. I should not have been driving. But, maybe because I was in shock, I’d accepted the idea that I wasn’t badly hurt and, besides, Professor Bruno could not drive. So, it was up to me, in any case.
Professor Bruno must have realized that I was not in a proper state of mind when I (unintentionally) ran through my first stop sign. It seems I ran through a number of them, and the professor was amused by this afterwards, but at the time it must have been harrowing. He sat beside me with a crooked smile on his face, his briefcase in his arms like a flotation device. Also, while trying to stay calm or trying to keep me calm, he began to tell me about Nature. It was mostly about shores and stars, but I admired his composure, his repeated efforts to keep me focused.
But then he got stuck on the difference between the Latin word Natura and the Greek word Phusis. The distinction was something he’d taken from a German theologian. Both words are translated as ‘Nature’ but, according to the theologian, the Greeks made no distinction between the human and the natural worlds, while the Romans viewed themselves as separate from Nature. I remember all this clearly, not because it was interesting but because (at least in my mind) Professor Bruno kept repeating the words Natura and Phusis as if they had some special force. He shouted the word Natura, for instance, as I drove through a stop sign and crossed the median.
Under normal circumstances, I doubt I’d have understood a thing. But, despite my light-headedness, the professor’s words did reach me. They may even have kept me awake. Because, as I drove, I became convinced there really was no difference between myself and the world drifting by – ochre farm fields, greyish telephone poles, pale blue sky, trees in clumps of four or five, yellow signs showing where intersections were hidden.
At times, I felt such exhilaration that I imagined I could not die. And I drove on with little more than a vague feeling I was heading north, as we went past Strange, Happy Valley, Kettleby, and Ansnorveldt. I had never had such a strong sense that – as my father might have said – I was dust and my return to dust would be a great arrival as much as it would a departure. I felt indistinct from the ground on which we were driving.
It’s a wonder we survived the half-hour drive.
Another wonder is how I ended up in an emergency ward in East Gwillimbury. I held on to consciousness just long enough to get us to a hospital. But I must have passed out as soon as we reached the parking lot of Our Lady of Mercy Health Centre. The professor later told me he thought we were lucky to reach the place. And I agreed. It would have been terrible if I’d passed out somewhere along the road. It felt, though, as if I had been guided to East Gwillimbury – an otherworldly feeling, a feeling made stranger by my coming to on a gurney, blood flowing into me from a sack suspended on a transfusion stand. I was more or less naked under a sheet. They’d left my socks on.
Our Lady of Mercy unnerved me. Because I have a fear of hospitals. Because, when I was a child, I spent months in Toronto Western watching my mother go through chemotherapy. Because the look and smell of hospitals remind me of being scalded by boiling water. I have no good memories of hospitals, and Our Lady of Mercy was not much different from others I’ve been in.
There were panels of white Styrofoam on the ceiling above me. In a gap among the panels were tubes of fluorescent lighting, darkened where their pins entered their holders. The light from the tubes was inconsistent – white, yellowish, blue. I had time to notice all this because I was on my own for quite a while. I didn’t want to make a fuss but, after what felt like an hour, I finally called out.
– Can someone help me?
– Oh, a nurse answered, you’re awake!
The woman had a freckled face with high cheekbones and her hair was red. She seemed so surprised, I wondered if my regaining consciousness was an unexpected turn of events.
– You lost a lot of blood, she said, and since you’re here to have your tonsils out, we wanted to make sure your levels were good.
– Why are my tonsils being taken out? I asked.
– I guess there’s something wrong with them, she said. People don’t usually have them out otherwise.
I admitted this was true. But I expressed my reservations. I’d never been bothered by my tonsils.
– I think there’s been a mistake, I said. My tonsils haven’t given me trouble. I was bitten by dogs.
– Well, there you go, she answered. The dogs probably made your tonsils worse. That’s how trauma works sometimes. But your gurney being in this place means you’re ready for a tonsillectomy. We don’t tend to make mistakes about these things, you know.
– But the dogs didn’t get me by the throat, I said.
She said
– The doctors might have found you needed a tonsillectomy while they were treating your wounds. Wouldn’t it be better to have your tonsils out now, while you’re already a little injured?
– Could I see the doctor? I asked.
– I think it’s better we don’t disturb Dr. Flew while he’s getting ready to take your tonsils out. Don’t you agree?
She was polite, but I felt she’d been encouraged by my tone, maybe thinking I was unsure
