Jungle Diary: Hard to Kill
An update on kids, roads, not-dying, and the folding of time
The moment I received the frantic call from Treva telling me that Felix had crashed the moto, flipped into a gully, smashed his head on a large boulder, and couldn’t remember what happened, I dropped everything and left my office, trying not to hyperventilate.
As I drove up the hill, Lee was still there at the scene, handling the bystanders who were expecting a donation for hauling our kid out of the ravine (they got one), along with Aussie Paul who just happened to have been passing by at the time to deliver our weekly chicken order.
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When I pulled over to get a quick update, Paul confirmed the story that when Felix saw our dogs he groggily asked who they belonged to and where they came from, which inspired in me another wave of nausea, and I gunned it the rest of the way to our house. (Seeing Paul’s concern was especially galvanizing—he is the most mad max individual I have ever encountered. He drives an ancient scooter patched together with staples and duct tape, with pieces perpetually dangling off of it like apocalyptic jewelry, and makes his subsistence living slaughtering the chickens he raises in his back yard then delivering them around town in a little cooler strapped to the back of the derelict bike—if he was concerned, this was serious.)
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When I ran inside, I found our twelve-year old son lying on the sofa, battered and lethargic, but very much alive. Had he not been wearing a helmet, however, he would have died, without question, and he had indeed sustained a concussion, as evidenced by his amnesia. But I spent the afternoon treating him to all the energy-work he could handle along with a DMSO protocol, and within a couple of hours he could recall the accident and the dogs and everything else, thank God. A couple of days later he placed third in a chess tournament and won a new pair of socks (which he put on) and bottle of cologne (which he immediately lit on fire in the field behind the house).