In Part I, I told you about the connection I share with Wayne. I wrote about a vision I’d had of a rollover while waiting for him one night, and how I later found out he had been involved in a rollover. Or at least involved with a rollover.
Here’s another scenario where our connection fired up. But this time it was a physical pain, not a vision, that linked us.
The Aching Toe
One summer when we lived in Florida I bought Wayne a surfboard. But he met with catastrophe on his maiden voyage.
He took his board out while I stayed back and played volleyball with our friends. An hour later I was surprised he was still out.
“He must be having a blast. But I hope he’s keeping an eye on the weather.”
Dark clouds were rolling in and some people had already decided to skidaddle.
Two hours later the skies were even more threatening and still no sign of Wayne. The beach had pretty much cleared out and everyone I was playing volleyball with had gone except our friend Tony, who was concerned about both Wayne and I. He stayed behind hoping Wayne would soon turn up because he could tell how worried I was.
He waited almost an hour before other obligations pulled him away. So there I was, by myself, wondering where the heck my husband was.
I’d always been taught to stay put when you got separated like that. So I waited. And waited. Then I decided to check out the beach in the direction he’d gone.
I’d walked maybe a half mile when all of a sudden my big toe on my right foot started to hurt. I ignored it, but a half mile more it started to full on throb.
“Oh BLEEP! What have I done? I better turn around and get back before I screw my foot up to the point I can’t walk at all.”
But the hurting lessened the closer I got back to my original spot. When the clouds broke and the lightning started striking too near, it was fully back to normal, allowing me to sprint to our truck. (I forgot to mention I had put my stuff away in the truck before starting out on my walk and Wayne hadn’t been there then.)
Anyway, so I get to the truck and hear Wayne call to me from the entrance of a nearby building where he’d taken cover. Here he comes hobbling towards me, his right foot in what I first thought was a cast.
Turns out he’d nearly severed the big toe on his right foot clean off with one of the fins of his surfboard. A kind bystander had rushed him to the hospital. That’s where he’d spent the next three hours.
I didn’t have a cell phone at the time, so he had no way to get word to me. (But this incident is why I do have a cell phone now.)
Or did he? Via that throbbing toe. After all, it was because of that that I turned around and ended up going back to the truck.
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