There should be catalogues of dangers. Falling in love can be dangerous. Believing in someone can be dangerous. Driving to the airport in Los Angeles can be dangerous and can be terrifying in Acapulco. Eating almost anything these days appears to be dangerous. Yesterday I read that over-the-counter drugs and supplements can be very dangerous and druggy-drugs should be listed for danger levels the way cancers are. When I came to New York, my mother gave me a long list of dangers to watch out for. Then my father gave me a list. I have done some foolish things and dared some foolish dares, but so far the most dangerous event in my life happened on the boat I live on half the year. Boats are compact places – every inch counts. One day, my engineer and his assistant were working on the hatch and for a few moments they left it open – a shaft directly down to the sea below – and threw the carpeting over it to get that bulky item out of the way. No one expected me to appear in that area so, when I did appear, I was a shock. And as I stepped on what I thought was the carpeted floor and sank through the hatch door towards the sea, the shock turned into hysteria. They stood mute for a few moments as I sank and screamed to them to grab me. They grabbed but getting leverage to lift me, as I was far down, was difficult. Hanging there, I was aware that there was an excellent chance I would break my neck or lose a leg in the angle of my fall to the sea. There is no word for how I felt. Everyone on the boat was with us now and trying to lift me up through the steel rimmed hatch opening. They finally ignored the angles and just lifted me, but most of the top skin of my left leg was scraped off by the metal rim. I saw, as I lay on the floor, that I had a mincemeat leg and there were terrible times ahead.

My Italian friends always warn me against ambulances in their country so we took a speedy taxi to the hospital emergency quarters. As I was wheeled into them, a man was hurrying out to his car. He was alone and in a hurry. We paid no attention but he turned out to be the head of the plastic surgery and burn division of that part of Italy. Not a religious man, he said he heard a strong voice calling to him and, as there was no one around, he was forced to assume it was a messenger of God’s. “Follow that woman” the voice told him, so he turned to see what woman he was to follow and saw me disappearing into emergency where a young doctor looked at me with horror and predicted infection and loss of leg. I think that is when the captain of my boat decided to give up boating, which he did as soon as possible. But the Chosen Doctor joined the crew and looked after my mincemeat daily and then weekly all summer long until the threat of infection was over and the leg was regrowing new skin mixed with old skin that regrew itself. I am not Betty Grable, but my leg is its normal shape and much of my skin is normal. There are scars, but I can do the Lindy and and a mean tango, and if I really want to impress you, I can make it up to look pretty good. This has taken four years. And my heavenly doctor predicts steady improvement even yet. Best of all, I have my neck and, unlike Nora, I love mine. No, best of all I have a beloved new friend, Dr. Marasco, who is delighted he was chosen by God.