Shrooms!

 

          I did something rather stupid. At least in hindsight it was rather stupid. Honestly, it was more than stupid. It was dangerous. You could’ve woken up this morning and been one sister short — that’s how stupid and dangerous it was.

          “Peggy, Peggy, Peggy! What are you going on about now?” you ask.

          I was out with Itsy and saw all these beautiful white puff balls in the yard. I picked one and realized they weren’t puff balls, they’re white caps! I love white caps!

          I popped the top off. The gills were creamy white colored. I broke it in half and surprise! It smelled just like a mushroom you’d buy from the store!

          I’m gonna try it, I thought. The worst it’ll do is make me sick.

          I took a taste. It tasted just like a mushroom! I ate the whole cap. Not only that, I picked a few, leaving the more mature, open ones to release spores for the next crop.

I was gonna make me some mushroom soup!

Once I got my mushrooms home, I decided it might be prudent to confirm that these little beauties are edible.

I Googled it.

Guess what came up.

Death Caps.

Yep. Death Caps. An extremely poisonous mushroom.

Never eat a mushroom with white gills, Google said.

Oh no! I’m thinking. I’ve screwed up royally and now I’m gonna die!

I jumped up from the computer and checked the mushrooms I’d picked. They weren’t white but an off-white.

          I felt a little better.

I went back to the computer.

Death Caps have a green or yellow tint.

Whew! I was okay. The ones I picked didn’t. Then I went on to read. Size. Gills. Those resembled too closely the mushroom I’d eaten.

Now I’m back to thinking I’m gonna die again and Googled pictures of the Death Cap mushroom. It did sorta look like the ones I picked.

Guess what I started to do.

I started praying.

Lord, I know you protect children and fools and I was a fool.

“Peg, what happens if you eat a Death Cap?” you wanna know.

I know, right! I wanted to know too.

Symptoms of poisoning appear in six to 24 hours after ingestion. People experience severe abdominal pain, vomiting, and “cholera-like” diarrhea that may contain blood and mucus and often results in profound dehydration and death.

          Oh joy! Not only am I going to die, I’m going to die in a puddle of puke and poo!

          It reminded me of a dream I had.

I was driving and came to a cliff. There’s a road that leads down from the top but for some reason I missed the road and drove right off the edge of this million-mile-high cliff. I’m sure that’s an exaggeration but coming off the edge and seeing the ground so very, very far away, my only thought was, Oh shit! This is gonna hurt. At the same time, my heart sank into my stomach and I resigned myself to the consequences of my mistake. What else could I do? In the midst of a free fall, there was nothing else to be done except wait for the end to come.

I never hit bottom. I woke up.

          “What if you go to the hospital and get an antidote?” you ask.

          Yeah. There is none. If, by some slim chance you do recover, your only option is an organ transplant as the toxins in the mushroom destroy the kidneys and liver.

My God is a mighty God. This I know. He created everything from nothing. He alone controls life and death. If I had indeed eaten a Death Cap, I knew it could pass through my system with no ill effects at all if it’s God’s will.

Is my work here on earth done? I wondered. Have I written all the stories You want me to write?

          The Biblical story of Ananias and his wife, Sapphira came to mind. They said they were going to sell their land and give all the proceeds to the church. They sold the land and kept part of the money for themselves. God’s punishment was swift and severe. First Ananias lies about the money from the sale and falls dead at Peter’s feet, then, later, when Sapphira comes in, they ask her about it and she confirmed the lie. She too falls dead for it.

          They knew lying was wrong. They didn’t have to pledge all the money. They could’ve kept some for themselves and it would’ve been fine. Instead, they chose to lie about it so they would be exalted by men for their generosity. 

          Is there sin in my life? I wondered.

          Other than an occasional bout of self-gratification, I don’t think there’s anything else.

          “Ewww, Peg!” you exclaim.

          I know, right! That maybe more than you wanted to know. Besides, that one seems to be subjective. Some think it is, but in a confessional with a Catholicly ordained priest, he said he didn’t believe it was.

          Nonetheless, I’ll not have you thinking I’m perfect.

          I’ve heard it said that sometimes God will take you because of a sin you may commit. Is that true? I don’t know.

          “When Mike is gone — if I live longer then he does — I’m going to drink wine and smoke pot,” I recently told a friend. I have no idea why I even said something like that. I wasn’t thinking it. It just popped in my head and out my mouth.

          Although drinking wine in and of itself is not a sin, the last time I drank wine, more than four years ago, I got falling down, puke my guts up, stupid drunk, and that is a sin. I vowed then and there not to drink again.

          Would I be able to just have an occasional drink and not get drunk again? I don’t know. But I do know we own a bottle of Crown Royal. It’s been sitting unopened in my cabinet for… hmmm… twelve, thirteen years now. It was given to us as a gift from the jewelers when Mike bought that big diamond for me. 

          Smoke pot. Weed. Marijuana. Now there’s something I haven’t done in four or five years either — and not because I don’t have any, I do. But Mike doesn’t like it so I don’t.

          Is smoking pot a sin?

          Yeah. I think it is. The Bible warns against intoxication and altering your mind. You can have a glass of wine and not get intoxicated but there is only one reason to smoke pot. To get high.

          “What about medical marijuana?” you ask.

          I don’t know but it’s not pertinent here.

          Would dying now, because I mistakenly ate the wrong mushroom, keep me from committing a grievous sin in the future?

          Father, I prayed. I’ll get rid of all my pot if you don’t let me die.

          Bargaining with God.

          What if it’s like Ananias and Sapphira? What if I say, I’ll throw away all my pot, then don’t die? Will I still throw it away? Will I be tempted to smoke it later?

          I’ll throw it out now, I think. Then God’ll know I mean it.

          I got up from my seat and went to the spice cabinet. Behind jars of Italian Seasonings, Chili Powder, Dill, Ground Turmeric, Coriander, Fennel, and Basil, lives a jar marked Cinnamon that has no Cinnamon in it. It does contain some nice buds though. I set it on the counter. I pull out other mismarked spice jars too and a small baby food jar. I’ve collected a nice assortment over the years. Some so mild you could smoke a whole joint. Then some so wicked powerful a toke or two will fry you.

          I picked up a couple of jars and looked at it.

          It’s so beautiful. I just can’t!

          So was the apple that tempted Eve. Beautiful, I mean.

          You’re right. It’s a sin.

          Flush it.

          I can’t. I just can’t, I argued with myself

          I set the jars I’d been hugging to my breast back down on the counter and walked away.

          “What if Mike sees them?” you ask.

          He won’t. He’s so very engrossed in a sin of his own — even if he doesn’t think it’s a sin to watch that stuff. Queen of the South is his current dose of pollution. When I object to watching all the violence, nudity, sex, and crude language, he calls me a prude.

          It’s a sin. Eternity is forever. And I know what the Bible says about hell. I don’t want to take any chances that I’ll end up there.

          I went back to my computer and pulled up page after page of Death Cap Mushroom.

          What to do if you think you’ve eaten a Death Cap, I typed into Google.

          Go to the hospital immediately, and take one of the mushrooms with you so it can be positively identified.

          Well, I’m not gonna do that. I’d have to admit I did something stupid. Besides, there’s no antidote. If I get really sick, I’ll fess up then.

          I went back to Death Cap images.

          I’m still not sure.

          I went back to Death Cap identification and read a few more pages. One gave this hint. It’ll smell bad after a while.

          I got up and went to the bowl of mushrooms on the counter. I picked one out and smelled it. It didn’t smell bad. It smelled earthy, just like a mushroom.

          Next to it, my jars of hoarded marijuana waited for me to pass judgement.

          If I die then let them be shocked when they find my stash, I thought and put them back in their hidey-hole.    

          I looked at the clock. It’s been three hours. I took inventory of my innards. Is my stomach starting to feel bad?

          What if I make myself throw up?

          I know from past experience, times I’d eaten something that made me feel bad, that my body is protective of whatever lands in its possession, and doesn’t give it up easily. I’ve tried to make myself throw up. The old finger down the throat doesn’t work for me — no matter how hard I try!

          How to make yourself throw up, I Googled.

          Tickle the back of your throat with your finger or the handle of a toothbrush.

          Well, there’s something I haven’t tried. A toothbrush.

          I headed for the bathroom. Oh, and we had lunch too. I thought of my lunch sitting on top of the mushroom cap I ate. Spaghetti for Mike, a healthy serving of broccoli with a cup of spaghetti over it for me. All those beautiful colors swimming around together in the bowl. Oh, well. It couldn’t be helped.

          I tried. And I tried. I really, seriously tried to make myself throw up and I just couldn’t get the job done.

          “Weren’t you afraid Mike would hear and want to know what’s wrong?” you ask.

          I know, right! If he asks, I can’t lie. I could just say something I ate didn’t agree with me. But for the moment, I wasn’t worried. An episode of his show ended and he went down to the barn. So, he wasn’t in the house at the moment.

          I went back to the computer and looked for other ways to induce vomiting.

          Syrup of Ipecac.

          I don’t have that.

          Two teaspoons of salt in warm water will create an imbalance and you should vomit in 25 to 30 minutes. To hasten, stick your finger down your throat.

          I could try that, I thought.

          I mixed the salt and warm water and drank it down. It wasn’t that bad. I waited a few minutes then tried to make myself vomit. It almost worked. Almost. With tears running down my cheeks and snot running out of my nose from trying so hard, I finally gave up. I’d have to wait for the salt to work on its own.

          It never did.

          Like driving off a cliff, I resigned myself to the consequences of my foolish actions.

          It was Friday and I was getting an early start on my letter blog. I went back to my computer, put mushrooms out of my mind, re-read what I’d written, and started typing again.

          I’m writing about my brothers and hunting and I have a question. I can’t ask Ed; he’s gone on to be with the Lord. I can’t ask Mike either. He’s gone too. David came to mind. I texted him. “If I die, I ate a wild mushroom.” I just thought someone should know the truth.

          “A magic one?” he asked.

          “No, just a white cap. You wanna Face Time?”

          David called me on Facebook but it takes my computer too long to hook up and it disconnected before it rang through. I called him back and we talked about hunting for a while.

          Six hours and the first hurdle passes.

          My stomach was a little queasy but honestly, it could’ve been the handful of potato chips I had with lunch.

          I drank half a bottle of the pink stuff.

          Bed time comes and I’m feeling a little more confident that the mushroom I ate wasn’t a Death Cap.

          I woke up the next morning and still felt fine.

          Twenty-four hours pass and I don’t get sick.

          After two days I throw the mushrooms out. I’m just not taking a chance with mushrooms I’m not one-hundred percent sure about. Besides, I don’t know for sure that it wasn’t God that kept me safe.

          Mushrooms weren’t the only thing I threw out either. I dug my stash out. This time I didn’t look at it. I didn’t want to be swayed by its beauty. I didn’t think about the feelings of euphoria smoking it brings on. I just unscrewed lids and dumped all of it in the scrap bin to be tossed in the weeds, and washed the jars out.

          “Why didn’t you give it to someone?” you wanna know.

          I thought of that.

          And the words of our Lord came to mind.

          But whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to sin, it would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck, and he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

          Little ones, in this verse, doesn’t mean just children. The truth is plain and simple. Don’t cause others to stumble, or sin, or it will be bad for you.

          All that day long I thought of the pot in the bottom of the scrap pot.

          You could get it back out, came into my head. Thoughts planted by the devil or my own love of that particular sin, I don’t know.

          No. I firmly say and refuse to think about it. 

          I crack a hard-boiled egg and toss the shells in the scrap bin.

          You can still get it out, came again.

          An episode of Sex and the City came to mind. Don’t judge. I watched all kinds of things before I was saved.

          In this episode, Miranda’s boyfriend had a giant chocolate chip cookie delivered to her apartment with I love you written in icing on top. She freaked and threw it in the trash. In the next scene the kitchen light comes on, Miranda peeks around the corner, comes into the kitchen, gets a piece of cookie out of the trash, and eats it. She’s a little disgusted with herself, turns off the light, and leaves the kitchen, all the while licking her fingers. Then she comes back again and gets another piece. And another. I don’t remember how many times she did it but eventually she called her friend Carry and is in tears as she relates how she was eating out of the trash can. After she hung up the phone, she got the bottle of dish soap and squirted the remaining cookie with soap.

          You can still get it out, came again.

          And again, I had to reaffirm my no.

          I peeled potatoes for supper that night, making sure peels and water landed on top of the marijuana.

          After supper, after dishes were cleaned up, I took the scrap bin to the weeds where I dump it. I tossed the contents. When I looked, there in bottom, was a nice dry pile of weed. Before thoughts of trying to save any of it could creep back into my mind again, I scraped it lose and tossed it.

          A feeling of victory came over me.

          But I know I didn’t do it on my own.