They had to amputate my arm. While both
husband and wife were clearly intelligent
and world-weary people (both being in their fifties),
neither was a doctor. But they knew enough
to get the job done, although
the cleanest tool they had
to do it with was a chainsaw. I requested
one that had not previously bit through
the flesh of a zombie
which made the man laugh,
that being the only opportunity to smile
we would have that day.
I would have passed on this gruesome act,
but the infected flesh of my wound
was crawling dangerously close
to my left shoulder. The man was right,
it had to go. Less than two seconds, he told me.
That's how long
it would take to remove my arm. From there,
they would cauterize the stump
with a piece of metal heated over a flame.
The man asked me if I was ready. I looked at
him, nervously handling
the chainsaw, then over to his wife,
who glanced at me over her shoulder
as she held something I couldn't see
over the fire. And I said yes.
I don't remember the entirety of the ordeal.
Mostly just my own screaming,
blood,
and pain
that blinded my eyes and consciousness,
as I believe went into shock at least once by
the time my wound had closed.
They offered to let me stay a day or two
before I headed back into the cold,
but I left that night. I told them
that I needed to see my parents,
that their cabin was close by,
halfway up that squat mountain
we could see from the end of their driveway,
at which the two shared a silent,
concerned look for just one moment
before they saw me off. They
waved
as I continued up the road
with extra ammunition,
some food
and a new appreciation of balance.
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