I recently escaped to Rottnest Island to do some writing. Off the coast of Perth, Rottnest is best known for its population of quokkas, its sandy beaches, and its car-free quietude. It is windy and peaceful, and my brain is happy there.
My family joined me for the weekend. The kids brought friends I will call Alice and Holly.
One hot afternoon, my daughter Willa, Alice, Holly, and I rode our bicycles up and down hills, across the island, to a quiet snorkeling bay called Parker Point. We drank from our water bottles and couldn’t wait to walk down the rocky steps to dive into the cool, turquoise water. The girls ran to the public toilet to change into their swimsuits. As I waited for them, I looked down at the reef below, at the reflection of a single white cloud. It was a beautiful day.
My reverie was interrupted by a child screaming, “Mom!” Willa was walking quickly away from the toilet, holding onto Alice who was hunched over, crying. Holly, the youngest of the three, ran to me and said simply, “We need you.”
Alice was doubled over, shaking and crying, her long hair masking her face. “Something bit her,” Willa said.
I dropped my water bottle and knelt in front of Alice. I moved her hair to one side. “What hurts, sweetie? What happened?”
And then, with a slight lisp, poor sweet Alice uttered the following:
“A scorpion stung me in my mouth.”
I am now going to pause so you can hear that again.
“A scorpion stung me in my mouth.”
While this verbal batter sets in your mind’s oven, let’s review the facts:
- I was with three children, two of whom were not mine, in the most remote corner of a remote island off the coast of the most remote city in the world.
- Scorpions kill people.
“Let’s sit you down,” I told Alice, as I led her to a fallen log. “Show me.”
Trembling, she opened her mouth and lifted her tongue. Sure enough, in the soft gum pocket under her tongue was a bright red patch. She sobbed. “It hurts.”
“Ouch,” I said, cringing. It looked painful.
Willa and Holly sat on either side of Alice, stroking her back. The three of them looked at me anxiously, reminding me I was the adult.
I took a deep breath. “Are you sure it was a scorpion?” I asked Alice.
Yes, she was sure. As she was removing her shirt, she caught a glimpse of it just before it fell into her mouth. It stung her and she spit it out.
“Look at me,” I said to Alice. I stared into her eyes, and searched her face for signs of… decline?
I rested my hand on her knee and said, “Yesterday, when you and I both got stung by jellyfish, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” I wasn’t sugar coating. It actually wasn’t that bad, as far as jellyfish stings go. She shook her head, agreeing with me.
I went on. “So say that pain was a three out of ten. What is your pain right now?”
“Nine.”
“Ok,” I said, taking a breath. “You’ll be ok.”
Shocked to discover my phone had two bars, I called the Rottnest Visitor’s Centre. I explained what had happened and where we were. The young woman on the phone confirmed there was a medical clinic in the center of town (by “town” here, I mean three shops) and it was open now.
“No one can come get you,” said the woman.
“I’m sorry?” I did not believe her.
“You can catch the bus.” There was a shuttle bus that circled the island. “Good luck!” she said in a tone more appropriate directed at someone about to do karaoke.
I put my phone away and checked on Alice. She was crying hard but neither frothing at the mouth nor having problems breathing, which I took to be positive signs.
Willa spotted a bus coming and sprinted to wave it down. I ran over as he opened the door. The sun was beating down on my face. I squinted up at him and explained the emergency.
He removed his hat and said, “I reckon it’ll take over an hour to get you to the clinic. I gotta make several stops on the way.”
“But this is an emergency,” I pleaded. “My daughter’s friend was stung by a scorpion.”
“I’m sorry ma’am. I have to pull over at every stop on my route.”
I decided that the quickest way to the island doctor was to get back on our bicycles and ride as fast as we could, up and over hills, into town. As I crouched in front of Alice, a quokka hopped by with a joey in her pouch.
I remembered my midwife.
Twelve years ago, when I was deep in labor with Willa and beginning to push, my midwife listened to the baby’s heartbeat and informed me the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. She pulled an oxygen mask over my face, leaned close to me, and said something I have never forgotten. “I need you to get this baby out right now.” I pushed as hard as I could, and minutes later, Willa was born, healthy and inquisitive.
“I need you to get back on your bicycle,” I said to Alice in my most serious voice. She shook her head violently back and forth. I repeated myself and added, “This is the only way we can get you help. We need to bike as fast as we can, to the medical clinic.”
Willa looked at me in shock. How would her friend manage a bicycle in her current state?
Holly looked confused and slightly disappointed. I think she was hoping we were still going snorkeling.
“I can’t do it,” Alice said.
Of course she couldn’t do it. A scorpion just stung her in the mouth.
“Yes you can,” I said. “And you will. We all will. Let’s go.” I secured her helmet.
Those next forty minutes were a whirlwind of sweat, leg cramps, empty water bottles, and persistent cheering. “You can do it, Alice!” we kept yelling. “You’re doing a great job!” People passed us, smiling at all the positive reinforcement. They had no idea.
As we rode, I periodically asked Alice to rate her pain. By the time we arrived at the clinic, it had gone from a nine to a six. She even laughed when I suggested she keep her mouth shut in bathrooms from now on.
The doctor was wonderful. He confirmed that yes, there are “heaps” of scorpions on Rottnest but they are not deadly. We left the clinic with pain medicine and icy poles. I called Alice’s mother, and was reassured by her quintessential Aussie response: laughter. We stayed in that night, in our cabin overlooking the ocean, and watched the Olympics. Those aerial skiers are nuts.