I’ve never written a series for this column before. I’m very excited about it. Today’s column is officially my first Part II. If you remember back to June’s column, we left Dave in recovery, just after he had hobbled home from the hospital quick care, unable to extend or use one of his two legs. You might recall that his health was in serious jeopardy because earlier that evening, just after his leg had gone out from under him, he had spent precious time visiting his new set of tractor tires before coming home to fill his wife in on his new and painful condition. There I was, having never presumed that the value of my peace of mind exceeded the joy of perusing tractor tires, old or new, but felt that emergency medical conditions should merit emergency-type behavior.
As an aside, last month’s column was not the first to leave people wondering about Dave’s well-being. Dave has a loyal group of worriers – led most faithfully by his mother-in-law – who wonder how he fares when I write so honestly about his adventures on Coleman farm. First point of fact: This is a farming/ranching/agricultural-type magazine and, in my life, it just so happens that Dave is my farmer. In consequence, the spotlight shines bright on whatever fun farm thing Dave chooses to be doing. When, for example, he indulges in farm equipment therapy purchases, the fallout is sure to find a space for review here. And in my defense, just imagine what would happen if I started writing stories about other farmers. That could also be fun, but then again, probably not.
Second fact: I promise, cross my heart, that I read every column I write about Dave to Dave before I submit it. I give him full and complete veto powers, and bless his heart, he has never used them. Admittedly, he is not always still listening to me by the time I finish reading my latest expose because, well, he has other important things on his mind, like the spider in the kitchen corner or the tornado video on his weather app.
I also suspect readers worry about Dave because they don’t understand that what might seem like an insult to most people is not necessarily an insult to a southern Idaho farmer. Point of reference is … everything. When I write about how cheap Dave is, for example, like when he complains about the high cost of cold cereal, it doesn’t bother him a bit. He honest to goodness says, “Hey, I’m proud of that.” Around here, cheap is just an unfortunate term for being frugal. What Dave actually thinks is that everyone else needs to learn to quit spending all their money on foolish things like recreational activities and vacations.
Last month’s column did seem to hit a nerve with him, though. For the first time, I saw a sign of discomfort with my habit of dissecting him in print. As aways, I had read the column to him before I submitted it, so I thought the subject had been put to bed. Then three mornings later, out of the clear blue, he turned to me and said, “Michele, there is not a man alive that would not have gone and looked at those tractor tires before he came home.” He’s not wrong. And that’s exactly the problem. For better or worse, Dave is the archetype of the southern Idaho male farmer. (Female farmers are a whole other story – another subject for another day.)
Since Dave is an archetype, no one who reads this column really needs me to describe how he’s behaved or not behaved himself since his injury. Every reader already knows how things have gone around here – already knows that if there is a worse patient on this earth than a farmer . . . well, there isn’t one. There just isn’t. For research purposes, though, it might be useful to outline the phases of Dave’s injury, treatment and recovery, though whether or not there has actually been a recovery is up for discussion.
Phase 1: Getting the farmer inside the doors of a medical facility. This helps determine the seriousness of the patient’s condition. If the farmer actually agrees he needs to see a doctor, he probably should have already been at the hospital an hour ago. Of course, just because a farmer agrees to seek medical attention doesn’t mean the decision is going to stick.
Phase 2: Denial. After a farmer has agreed to go to the doctor, he’s invariably going to change his mind, probably more than once. Just go ahead and bet your last dollar that at some point he’ll say, “Let’s just wait until tomorrow to see how things are. I bet I can sleep it off.” Whatever she says will only get his back up and make the knots in his head more knot-headed.
Phase 3: Diagnosis. This is a fun phase because the farmer is only going to half believe what the doctor says. And then he is going to split the suggested recovery time in half because he “doesn’t have time to be out of commission that long.” Interestingly, whenever a farmer is taken out of commission, it is always “the worst possible time it could have happened.”
Phase 4: Recovery. Fact – if the farmer can get into the tractor, he will get into the tractor. As in the next day. He doesn’t consider anything he does while in a tractor to be real work. It is called “taking it easy.” And since everything always works according to plan with a tractor, there is essentially no risk that a farmer might end up teetering on a crutch in high grass while trying to hammer away at a frozen bearing.
Phase 5: Setback. Once a farmer regains some of his abilities, he’ll always overdo whatever he hasn’t been doing. The first day Dave’s leg fully extended to the ground, he went outside and clocked 5,000 steps. The next day, he couldn’t figure out why he felt and looked like a mangled tater tot. Not to divulge all of his secrets, but since his injury, Dave has irrigated, corrugated, branded calves, worked 4-H steers, moved pipe and who knows what else behind my back. Thank goodness he has been taking it easy. Of course, his knee doesn’t work now.
Phase 6: Medication. Did you know that farmers don’t need pain medication? When they are as grumpy as @#$%!, it is simply because you are irritating, not because they are in any discomfort whatsoever. About day three of Dave’s no-medication tirade, I straight up told him, “You take that medication for me, Dave. You take it so I don’t murder you.”
The jury is still out on whether either of us is going to survive his injury.
