It wasn't this bad but it felt like it was. Last Sunday at 11 a.m. I was attacked by a swarm of wasps. More on that in a minute. But first, what good is a trauma like this if you can't come out of it with a good story. A good story is the souvenir of traumas --providing you recover. Two decades ago I was visiting my friends Bob and Ellen in San Francisco when we decided to go camping in Yosemite. I'm a California native but had never been to this national park. Bob and Ellen found this odd, but...

Nurse... Nuurse... Nuuuurse...

Fellow ER Patient Moaning in Pain

It began as a pressure in my lower back. Instinctively, I knew what it was. I broke out in a cold sweat knowing that over the next few days I would feel what my father and my sister had both felt. Our shared genetic connection: I was about to pass a kidney stone.

I had dodged this bullet before. Three times I had passed a stone with no pain whatsoever. In fact, I didn't even realize I was passing a stone until it unceremoniously plopped into the toilet. Such was my luck. But that was about to run out.

It was a dull pain that began about 10 am. Focusing on my work, I could ignore it for most of the day. But on the commute home I couldn't shake it. As a diversion I looked around at my fellow commuters. How many were involved in their own pains? I was able to mask mine, but anticipated walking through my front door when I would finally be able to acknowledge it with a moan. That's when it seized me.

A souvenir from my recent vacation decapitated me!

Before beginning the procedure Deb, the dental technician initiated some preliminary chit-chat. "What brings you here today?" she asked. Offering up my porcelain crown I said, "It came off."

"Crowns don't just come off," she replied.

• • •

One of the unspoken rules traditions of a summer beach trip is to bring back a box of salt water taffy for your cube mates. For those sequestered in the office while you were sunbathing it's a sweet reminder of the pleasures of a leisurely sojourn to the shore (and after your fourth piece the sugar high makes that three hour meeting go so much faster).

While this confection isn't high on my personal list of favorites (I'm a closeted chocoholic) I always enjoy a good chew. So when I returned to the office after a week in Wildwood, New Jersey a one pound box of James' Salt Water Taffy accompanied me on my morning commute.

After regaling my coworkers with the salient details of my trip I pulled the box from my backpack. I was rewarded with a collective "Oooo" of anticipation. I had fulfilled my duty and this would be a better-than-normal Monday for all. And as the initiator of our office bliss I took the ceremonial first pick of the box: a light green "cut to fit the mouth" taffy --that's what it says on the box-- that turned out to be mint rather than the lime I had hoped for.

I returned to my desk to read my backlog of emails while rolling the mint slab around my mouth. You have to toss it a bit to soften it up before you start chewing. But as I did suddenly I felt an addition to my little minty morsel: my #19 molar's porcelain cap. Skillfully retrieving it from my mouth I examined it closely for any damage. The last time this happened it came out in pieces. That was an expensive mistake. But this time I was lucky. It was totally intact. A simple reattachment was all I'd require. I immediately made an appointment with my dentist for the next afternoon.

When I got home that night I carefully removed the crown from its special CD jewel case (it was the only enclosure I could find at my desk). My children were most interested in seeing "the tooth" close up. They were mesmerized by its translucent bluish color (from the metal under casing). But they nixed any notion I had that I was now eligible for the tooth fairy.

First impressions are important. I discovered this copy of Ferrets magazine in my doctor's waiting room. A visit with a new doctor always brings some hesitation. It's like a first date. Will you like him/her? Will he be kind and gentle? Will he be on time? You are primed for qualitative first impressions on this your first date --I mean your first appointment. As I sat in my new doctor's waiting room I looked around. Value judgements start at the front door. A doctor's outer office is a guide to his inner and innate medical practice. Is it contemporary and au courant...

She looks a little tentative. I focus on her eyes, looking for clues as to why she is here. I notice she is clutching a small stuffed animal in her hands. We are both waiting.

Hollywood Squares is blaring on the TV. X has just won the square. I must concentrate on waiting, but the volume is too high and distracting. It takes me 30 minutes before I get up enough courage to cross the room and turn the thing down. I'm quite relieved no one objects. My angst is at the rim.

A nurse in her operating room scrubs walks nonchalantly across my path. Her hands are cupped together. Something small and encased in plastic comes along for the ride. She is delivering something to someone.

I am aware of everything as I wait for my wife to get out of surgery. My neck is stiff. I'm sitting in the audience of an off, off-Broadway play, more like community theater. Before me are construction workers, bureaucrats, husbands, and mothers, all part-time actors on stage. And I wait for each of their stories to unfold before me.

The doctor told me she'd be in the operating room for about 90 minutes. The closer that deadline approaches the tenser I become. Time moves slowly when you demand something else.