This week marked the hottest temperature in recorded history. Death Valley is inhospitable in the best of circumstances, and summer only amplifies the conditions. I hear there are reptiles that have managed to eek out a home there but they have my sympathy. Even the creepy ones.
We were in Needles many years ago. Our family had rented a truck in Albuquerque and John and I were packed for the move to California. Unfortunately my attention to details, in reserving a hotel room near the Grand Canyon, and methodically packing 164 boxes with the earthly belongings of a family of six, did little to shield us from a ruptured appendix.
John managed to peel me out of bed and smash the kids in the van to find a hospital in a strange city. I was of no help as he talked to white coated professionals about his wife, curled up in the fetal position. He was left with too few phone numbers and not enough diapers as he began solo parenting, hoping with all his might that it was temporary. It was July third. Our insurance plan began on July 1st.
Six hours later my eyes opened and I was two ounces lighter from the absence of an extraneous organ. A friend flew out from LA to drive the truck, as my capacity for such things had been compromised. Three days later the doctor said I was strong enough to resume the journey. I slowly hobbled to the car, the one with no air conditioning, and my children were excited to be on our way. The nursling was eager to make up for lost time.
When we paused at a rest stop in Death Valley for gas and ice cream, the bottle of juice in the car both exploded and evaporated before we got back. Over the roar of open windows and clamoring kids I called to John.
"The pioneers crossed the desert in wagon trains!"
"A lot of them died!" he yelled back.
When we opened the door to our new home I saw the piles of boxes stacked in every room. I recalled the doctor's parting advice.
"Get plenty of rest. Don't lift anything."
