One morning on the farm, Isabelle and I were moving the paddock where the goats graze. This involved gathering up the electric fences and carrying them to another end of the property, where the goats had not been to pasture for several weeks, giving the earth a chance to replenish itself and for the variety of grasses and flowers and leafy plants to spring up, healthier than ever. The goats were very happy on the days when we moved their paddock. They would literally jump for joy. It was really fun to watch.
We were just about finished with the task of moving the fence when I got stung by a bee on my finger. I don't think I'd ever been stung by a bee before (only a wasp, once) and it really hurt. Isabelle felt responsible because she suspected it could have been one of her own honeybees. "And now she's dead," she added, rather matter-of-factly. I apologized for having unintentionally murdered her (possible) bee.
The next morning, the finger that the bee had stung was really swollen. To the point that the skin was tight and itchy and I couldn't make a fist all the way. Isabelle noticed. "That's not normal," she said. She had a sad, concerned look on her face: which was the look she usually had on her face, but now even more so.
I didn't think my finger could get any more swollen but, the next day, it was. Isabelle gave me some green clay to put on it that she said would bring the swelling down. I rubbed the clay thickly all over my finger and then sealed it up with plastic wrap. It started to feel really hot. With my finger wrapped up this way, my whole left hand was out of commission, and I found myself incapable of carrying out some of my chores (including my favorite: milking the goats). I felt rather guilty about this, but my concern for the way the swelling was now progressing into my hand slightly outweighed my guilt.
I wanted to go to a doctor, to tell you the truth. But I didn't want to be the one to have to say it. I wanted them to be the ones to make the suggestion that I consult a professional. So I sat at the breakfast table saying things like, "I don't know what to do!" and "This definitely isn't normal."
Isabelle's mother, Dany, told me I was behaving like a baby. "Oui, c'est normal," she said.
I think of myself as rather tough, and I'm used to people taking me and my maladies seriously. Dany's comments left me somewhat taken aback. Fine, I would not insist on seeing a doctor. But now, if I lost the arm, it would be on her conscience.
The next morning, the swelling in my finger had gone down significantly. The day after that it was restored to its usual size. Oui, c'est normal. I guess I still have a ways to go before I can become a farmer.
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