Cactus Attack

non-fiction

There we were, my husband and I, taking our daily one and a half mile walk from Sonoyta to Territory, north to south, south to north, in our subdivision in the Sonoran desert. We now start walking earlier and earlier in the morning or just before sunset to beat the Tucson summer heat. Even though Tucsonans brag that we have dry heat which is true, very little humidity here, heat at its hottest, occasionally 110 or 115 degrees, can still be difficult to bear. Considering the heat, that day we walked close to sundown, it was light enough to not need a flash light and cool enough to be comfortable.

My husband started itching his left shoulder. He said he may have inadvertently brushed by a cactus. Well, there is no inadvertently brushing by any cactus. Not here. No where. Not in any desert. Cacti are not people-people, they have no interpersonal savvy. They do not want to engage you in conversation. They are not friendly. They are stand-aloners. They have no impulse control. No cognition. Great thinkers in this universe have never been cacti. None that I know of anyway. Any touch stimulates a feared response: the enemy has arrived, fight back, spines do your work. Like an arrow released from its bow, instinctively they fly out and pierce human flesh. You have now become a prisoner of its spines—pain ensues, redness appears. My husband—its latest victim.

So here’s my husband in his classy walking outfit, wearing Tucson’s super-casual attire, beige special medical high-to-the knee hose and “the beast,” high class, high-end, overly expensive, $150.00 a pop Brooks state-of-the-art athletic shoes, above the knee light beige shorts and a white plain standard tee-shirt. A hoard of spines gathered on his left shoulder. Stupidly I tried to pick them off his shirt. With my fingers. Then I suffered with the spine thing, oooh, oooh, they hurt. A little blood appeared. These few thorns were paying cheap rent to reside, for however long, inside my fingers. I managed to release them pulling and paining. After feeling sorry for myself, got out of my own skin, to my husband I attended.

I helped my husband pull off his shirt. His handsome body was now evident, black haired with many gray hairs intertwined. I couldn’t take in his sexy body. Not even for a moment. I was focused on the remaining spines. Imbedded and un-releaseable. Sprinted home, no time to waste, we tried to figure out what to do next. We didn’t realize there were many more spines to fight off.

My husband discovered his avengers, more cactus spines. Yes, they poked through his pajama top. Ok, now what? Quickly and deftly he got out one of his many engineering tools, a shining silver mega-size tweezer, to do some minor surgery and expunge, exorcise the spines. Obliterate them. Once and for all. This was an ordeal. Involuntarily recruited, I became his health-helper.

Health things scare me, they always have, ever since my mother had her first heart attack. I was age 10, health things from then on un-glued me. I repressed for years fear of her demise. No wonder my level of anxiety rose considerably again.

Anyway back to our operating suite, actually it was my husband’s tiny office, he affectionately calls his cave. That’s how small and dark it really is. So tweezer to skin, that’s my job. Did I really know how to do this? Are you sure you want to trust me as your health-helper here? What if I need to call the paramedics if you pass out? What if these stingers decide to make permanent residence in your shoulder? What if you die? I don’t want to be a widow. That’s for when I’m much older. And besides, I only signed up to be your wife. Not a doctor. Not a nurse. Ok, I know the in sickness and in health part of the traditional American marriage ceremony. But ours is in Hebrew, so who knows what I agreed to.

My husband put on a very bright light. Now I could see what had been partially hidden before. These tiny minuscule spines were no longer totally invisible. The imbedded ones were the hardest to get out. And pulling out the imbedded ones distressed me as I pulled my husband’s hair and skin with it, not meaning to do so. Most of the time I was gentle. He seemed to have survived pretty well. Still breathing, still chatting. Maybe my help was working despite my reservations. His high tolerance for pain really helped.

Now these nasty minuscule devil spines have met their match. We have now avenged the enemies. They are forever attached to duct tape, you know, the very wide, stick to anything, gray colored tape to salvage any household mishap. Now these spines we very very carefully wrapped up, buried, and garbaged. Instead of sticking, pricking the shoulders of decent law-abiding citizens like my husband, they are now stuck forever, married unhappily to duct tape. No breathing either. I have no sympathy for them. Neither does my husband.

Should we have sued for damages? Not a realistic option. There are so many more infinite numbers of enemy spines out there in the desert. With potential to hurt others who brush by them. Suits would likely be thrown out of court.