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Psalm 23 isn't just for funerals

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Buzzzzz! Buzzzzz! Buzzzzz! My father and I bend over the opened beehive, clouds of bees swirling around us.

 

“Dad,” I say, “Do you think–ow!” I slap a gloved hand at the spearing pain in my ankle.

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Oh no, the cuff on the right leg of my heavy-duty bee suit has pushed up, exposing my ankle.

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“Ow! Ow!” More stings in my right ankle. I scurry into some bushes, trying to brush the bees off so I can push the cuff back down without trapping bees underneath.

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Suddenly my whole body burns with heat. I scratch at my ankle, then my stomach, then my face. My head throbs. My heart races. I touch my face; my lips feel enormous.

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“Dad!” I shout, “I’m reacting. Badly.”

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Dad stares at me, a frame of honeycomb in his hands, and his gloves dark with bees. “I didn’t bring any antihistamines,” he says abruptly. “Get away from the bees or you’ll keep getting stung! Go back to the car!”

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I squint at the car; it’s a white blob on a strip of brown. Maybe sixty or seventy metres away, parked on the 4WD access track into the bushland where my hive is placed.

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I start walking. The bee suit grows heavy. The pounding in my ears increases and the car starts to veer back and forth. It’s growing dark. The sun must be setting.

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Dad’s voice. “Get in the car! There are bees everywhere. We’re a two-minute drive from home, your sister has an EpiPen.”

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Somehow, I’m in the car. Don’t remember getting in. God, are you there? Lord, it’s a bit scary. Lying down. Is it night? Is that why I feel so sleepy?

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I can hear a dog, panting, rasping. Why is there a dog in the car? We don’t own a dog.

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Car moving. Car jerking. Bumpy. Reversing.

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Dad’s hand reaches out of the darkness and squeezes mine. “Stay with me, girl, stay with me.”

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That’s the sort of thing they say in movies to people who are dying. No, I decide, I can’t be dying. Last week the Lord spoke to me about writing for Him. I can’t write for Him if I die now. Not logical.

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Thou art with me. Is that a Bible verse? Can’t remember where it is from.

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Then nothing.

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“Dad, the man on the phone wants to talk to you!” That’s my sister’s voice. But she wasn’t there before. She was at home. The car’s not moving. Am I swimming? Did I swallow lots of water? Is that why I can’t breathe? Gotta cough it out. Too tired to cough.

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Nothing again.

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Is that my alarm clock? Is it time to wake up? No, it’s an ambulance siren. Someone must be very unwell. Hope they are better soon.

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Car doors opening and slamming. Voices. Strangers’ voices. Dad’s voice. “I’ve given her sister’s EpiPen.”

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Not bees. Sheep. Something important I need to remember about sheep. That’s it, the Lord is my shepherd. I remembered. Now I have nothing to worry about. I can sleep.

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But there are voices still. “Lovey, can you hear us? We’re paramedics, we’re here to help you, okay?”

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“Mate, can we get this bee suit off her? How does it unzip? Never mind, where are the shears?”

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Ripping sounds. Coldness. “Can you hear us? Can you squeeze my hand?”

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Did I squeeze it? I tried to.

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Voices again. “That’s the second shot of adrenaline. Blood pressure 70 on–I can’t get a reading. Nah, she’s not responding properly. Turn it up, give her eight litres of oxygen.”

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Nothing again.

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Something about sheep and valleys. That’s it, the Lord is my shepherd. What’s the rest of it? I should remember, they say it at funerals.

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My body shudders. My legs jerk of their own accord, my arms strike out, hitting something or someone.

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“Quick! She’s convulsing! Lovey, just stay calm, okay, I need you to stay calm.”

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She’s the one sounding panicked. I am calm. I’m not dying. God said so. Maybe I should tell them that. But there’s something on my face. A mask thing, I think.

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My body shudders again. And again. Sheep. The Shepherd. Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. That’s right. God is with me.

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“Lovey, can you hear us, okay?”

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“Yes.” My voice croaks the word out on the third attempt.

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“Lovey, that’s really good.” Her voice sounds suddenly brighter. “Now, let’s get you out of this car.”

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Voices.  A hard-edged thing touches my body. Some sort of rolling action, and then suddenly I’m level, flat. I’m rolling again, onto something softer, then being pushed. Car doors open, then there are clicking sounds and jolting.

 

“How are you going lovey? We’ll take you to Flinders Hospital. Your Mum’s coming with you.”

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Mum’s here? Is my whole family here?

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My body convulses again and again, but things hold me tight, hugging me close. Remember, the Lord is with me. The Lord is my Shepherd. Even in the valley. Going to be okay.

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Car doors slam. Quiet. Just a few voices, Mum, and two ladies. One of the ladies is talking in a radio voice. The other lady is talking to me, asking me if I feel this or that. Have to be helpful and answer, even though my throat hurts. The ambulance starts moving. I hear a siren, a faint, far off siren. Jerky movements. Tut tut. My Dad would shake his head at her. He always says I should drive smoothly. Turn gently. Accelerate smoothly. That’s how you do it.

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The ladies talk to each other. “Give her another adrenaline shot,” Jerky Driver says, “Once I’m through this intersection.”

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More jolting movements, then the vehicle slows.

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“Okay, done.”

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Didn’t feel anything. But the darkness isn’t so dark. It’s getting greyer. The ambulance stops. Doors open, more clicking, more trundling. Corridors and machines and curtains and more people who ask too many questions and say too many names. Things slowly grow more distinct. A nurse fetches me heated blankets, a man who tells me he is a doctor waves a pair of tweezers at me and takes my shoe off. Did I put on clean socks this morning? He starts giggling, and I blush. That’s right, I’m wearing my bee socks; bright blue socks with giant bees on them.

 

“You have 19 puncture marks on your right ankle,” he says eventually. “Nineteen stings. I saved your socks, but do you want any of your clothes as a souvenir? Or a piece of them?”

 

Nineteen stings. I look silently at the bundle of shredded clothes. I shake my head. The beesuit, a jumper, my favourite t-shirt, leggings, tights. All I’m left with is underwear and a skirt. All those layers of protection, and yet undone by a faulty cuff.

 

The doctor leaves, and my Mum appears. We sit and talk. Her eyes are red and everything she says is in an extra-bright tone of voice. She tells me it is noon. Less than an hour after I was stung.

 

The curtain is pushed aside for the umpteenth time, and a blonde woman appears in a green paramedic’s costume. She asks how I am going, and steps closer, examining my face.

 

“I’m guessing you’re one of the paramedics who helped me?” I say slowly, and try to smile. The skin feels so tight on my face, I must still look like a balloon. Must look a sight. I try to laugh off my self-consciousness, “Thanks for saving my life.”

 

But she doesn’t laugh. “I’ve never seen an anaphylactic reaction that extreme,” she says quietly. “We gave you five doses of adrenaline. You’ve also had a cocktail of steroids and antihistamines.”

 

So it hadn’t just been a bizarre dream about bees and sheep?

 

The lady chats a little longer but leaves soon for another call.

 

“I was scared,” Mum says suddenly. “For your life, and for all of us in the ambulance. That paramedic was the one driving; she was weaving all through traffic, and she went through a red light at a busy intersection. She was using the lights and siren, but she was going so fast, I was scared there would be an accident.”

 

“I just thought she was a jerky driver.”

 

The look on my Mum’s face says everything.

 

“I, I don’t think I comprehended my life was in danger,” I said slowly, “Except that I kept thinking about the Lord being my Shepherd and Him looking after me.”

 

Mum swallows hard, her eyes wet. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.’ That’s Psalm 23, verse four.”

 

I blink back tears. “It’s a very real promise of God’s mercy and love. I learnt today that Psalm 23 isn’t just for funerals.”

 

This story was first published in Terracotta Travellers and other stories of life (2023)

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