ROBERTSON: Hospital bed memories

Lying in a hospital bed can be very boring. But if you think of good things, memories from the past, time can pass quickly and a past happiness returns to you. Here I hold up two very nice bass.

We live our daily lives without much thought, believing we have a pretty good grip on things. For the majority of the time, life progresses smoothly onward and we actually begin to believe we’re in control. That’s a wonderful illusion to have, but it’s not true. Life as we know it can be altered in an instant.

Two weeks ago, I was going about my business, making plans, unconcerned. Then my stomach felt just a bit upset, a trivial matter, easy to disregard. The following day, Friday, the pain had increased. Something wasn’t right. Friday night was bad, very bad. Chills, fever, tossing and turning, unable to rest at all. As I rolled over yet again, a stab of pain in my belly, low down. Pressing where my appendix should be almost doubled me over.

At that moment my phone rang. It was my daughter Julie. Though 500 miles away in Rhode Island, she suddenly felt something was wrong. She immediately knew things were amiss just by the sound of my voice. Julie told me in no uncertain terms to go to the Emergency Room immediately and no dilly-dallying around. Since she’d been inspired to call me, it was obvious other forces were at work here and to the ER I went.

I arrived at the Warren Hospital about 12:30 and was immediately whisked into a room where a nurse took vitals, drew blood and other tests before they even asked for my insurance. Then to an MRI scan. Sure enough, appendicitis. Before 5, I was in surgery.

My bed was wheeled down the usual green corridors to the Operating Room. Everyone there was happy and friendly, after all they weren’t undergoing surgery.

When consciousness returned, I was in my room groggy and a bit confused. After the nurses were sure I was conscious and rational, sleep came, but not for long.

Someone is shaking me. “Oh, were you asleep?”

Well, I had been until you ruined it with all your tests and questions. I fell back asleep, but not for long. Four hours later they were back. Have a heart, please, let me be. No, early in the morning they returned. Good grief, is sleep a hospital offense?

The laparoscopy had been successful, the post-op pain bearable if I didn’t move. The TV wasn’t working, so what do you do just lying there in bed? Fortunately, my thoughts wandered to happier times and suddenly I was a teenager again, just back from a Canadian fishing trip.

My old high school rifle coach, Dick Giddings, had taken several of us fishing and introduced us to the latest red-hot bass bait, the plastic worm. When I returned to Bradford after catching 110 bass during the previous week, my father was immediately informed of this new secret weapon. Just looking at it, he seemed skeptical, but my enthusiasm soon overcame his reluctance and we loaded the canoe on the VW Bug and headed to the lake.

It was a lovely summer evening, warm, the sun low in the sky, the waters calm, reflecting the cloud flecked blue sky and shoreline trees. We paddled to a weed bed and cast to the deep-water edge. Dad looked at the plastic, nightcrawler colored bait I’d handed him with a frown, but tied it on.

Less than five minutes later, I made a perfect cast to the edge of a round patch of duckweed and was intently watching my line sink. Suddenly, it gave a sharp twitch and began running out.

Glancing rapidly at Dad I blurted out; “Got a hit, got a hit.”

When the line came taunt, I reefed back on my rod twice. It was like setting the hook in a log, just a solid, immovable weight. Then the fish began moving, slowly at first. Pulling as hard as I dared on my little Zebco outfit with 10 pound-test line slowed the bass somewhat and she unexpectedly shot upward, exploding out of the water.

A quick glance back at Dad who was staring open mouthed at the spreading ripples in disbelief. The bass was incredibly strong and several times she almost snapped my line with her quick, sudden surges, my rod tip jerked down into the water, the cheap drag squawking in protest as I fiercely gripped the rod. My heart was in my mouth, I swear I felt the line actually stretch dangerously several times.

Finally, Dad slid the net underneath a 22-inch, six-pound largemouth bass. I was deliriously happy, my biggest bass ever at that point and my smile was so wide my face felt like it might split.

I unhooked the bass, randomly cast the plastic worm out again and was admiring my oversized bass, marveling at its length and girth. No camera in those days of course.

Suddenly, my rod rapped against the gunnel bent double. I grabbed it and almost had it pulled from my hands as another powerful fish shot off. Dad was really staring now, my rod bent deeply, drag protesting, my entire essence filled with joy and apprehension. The net dipped; a 19-inch largemouth.

Fortunately, Dad caught several bass, one 18-inches in length. What an evening. Mom couldn’t believe the huge stringer we brought home. The vision faded, the hospital room swam back into focus, but my smile remained.

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