Why Are There Two Snakes in My Garden of Eden?

...And Was That Orgasm Sacred or Profane?

It’s been nine days since my total hip replacement, and this recovery has been far less fun than any of my other post-surgical adventures. I never prepared for the top of the pain scale because I’d heard stories about grandmas returning home from the hospital, ready to go dancing. I’d imagined being fully functional by now. Not a chance.

My right thigh is full of ongoing muscle spasms, making everything from sleep to sitting an exercise in misery endurance. This pain is penetrating more than my actual body—it’s also injuring my ego. I’ve long thought of myself as a “good patient,” able to take what comes, whether from medical intervention or direct from the body itself. I didn’t realize all the ways I’d grown smug.

My veins, for instance, are terrible. Only a few phlebotomists have achieved a one and done stick. Getting an IV inserted is a team sport. I’ve watched scrubbed-up professionals fail, as if they’re trying to score a goal where I’m the lone spectator, encouraging and stoic, cheering them on. I shrug off apology. I even smile. I always took pride in my capacity for tolerating pain.

Now that I’m a terrible patient, desperate for relief but allergic to pain medication, I complain. There have been two nights full of crying and screaming. I had to call my surgeon multiple times, and during our most recent conversation, I tried to offset my neediness with proof of past stellar performance: I did pandemic brain surgery without shedding a tear. Why am I unable to compete with the 80+ population during this recovery?

The surgeon explained that hip replacement hurts the elderly much less because they lack muscle mass. A person my age is relatively young for this and still has lots of muscle. Strength, it turns out, yields more pain.

The prescription for muscle spasm—the muscle relaxant—seemed helpful until it dropped my blood pressure so severely, I almost fainted if not for my husband standing beside me. My surgeon decided to stop that medication and prescribed a substitute. I’m afraid of it.

I decided I would conquer the muscle spasms independently. I’m not sure if I should be writing about orgasms here on The Holy Chutzpah, especially ones made possible by self-stimulation, but I didn’t want to involve my husband in any shenanigans in case he became overly enthusiastic and accidentally harmed my fragile hip. Plus, the sex strategy occurred to me last night, just as he was heading out for a bike ride with some friends.

Relief came quick. I wondered if any of the thousands of members in my Facebook support group for hip replacement had tried what I’d just accomplished. I wanted to dig deep on Google, perhaps explore medical research on the benefits of orgasm on treating muscle spasms, but I never got the chance to conduct any research because within two minutes of achieving orgasm, I spotted a snake on my bedroom floor.

I cannot make this shit up. This is also why I quit writing fiction. People found my work unbelievable, even when I’d borrowed content from actual experience. There’s no way that would happen in real life.

Well, it happened here last night.

I wish this story were a little sexier, which is to say I wish I hadn’t needed to cling to my walker for dear life, but that is exactly what happened. I froze. The snake froze. My physical therapist would’ve been proud. I stood there for a record-breaking amount of time, unable to move or speak or look away.

The snake was ringed. It was yellow, black, and red. And there I was, survivor of so many surgeries, but death had arrived anyway, allowing me one last pleasure. I would fight to the end. I just couldn’t believe this was how I was going to die—death by bite of the venomous coral snake. Except, I wasn’t totally sure. Here in south Florida, there is another snake that closely resembles the coral snake—it has the same colors, but the rings are differently patterned. There’s even a rhyme every Floridian has memorized, except for me, and it’s meant to help differentiate the harmless from the lethal.

People think we lack culture here, but here’s the life-saving poetry:

Red touching black,

safe for Jack.

Red touching yellow,

kill a fellow.

I probably could’ve recited a Shakespearean sonnet before ever retrieving the correct mnemonic for my snake situation. I remembered a guy named Jack and another fellow, but I was thinking:

Red touching yellow, safe for a fellow. Red touching black, one dead Jack.

I didn’t know what to do. I kept swapping the lines around, trying to determine my fate, and I believe I called my husband before I texted my friend, Olga, but I’m not sure. In a previous post, in which I first introduced Olga here on The Holy Chutzpah, I provided this description of our friendship: I am guilty of texting her with questions before I even consult Google or AI because her take on things is always more thoughtful, provocative, and entertaining.

I did not think to look up a wildlife removal company. But Olga did. She immediately texted me back with the websites for three wildlife control companies. Even my internist fails to produce three referrals when she sends me to a specialist.

I also posted a picture of said snake on Facebook with a desperate plea for help. In real time, people started chiming in. My Floridian friends assured me that the snake was not venomous. A milk snake or a scarlet king snake—yes—but a coral snake it was not. I remained cautiously optimistic, relieved to learn I was not about to die by way of neurotoxin. I’ve never even tried Botox.

Still, I did not want to live alongside this snake. And with my current hip situation, I can’t be trusted to handle another surprise encounter. Living with a non-venomous serpent isn’t exactly a benign situation for me right now. I could fall and compromise the new hip if I happen upon another slithering reptile.

I stood. I waited. I adjusted my grip upon the walker’s handlebar. An Elton John song played in my head. I'm Still Standing! And I kept standing. Where was my husband? What good was all his biking if he couldn’t ride home fast enough to rescue me?

What I didn’t know is that my husband had already arrived home. I was not present for this next section, so I’ll do my best to recreate the scene as my husband later described it to me.

My beloved did not return alone. He brought back friends, a trio of snake hunters. The men were unarmed, except for our friend, Brad, who held a rusty machete. I think he also carried a box meant for trapping the snake.

As my husband approached the garage, he spotted another snake. “Bradley,” he pointed downward. “The machete.”

But Brad couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. “I thought you said the snake was in the bedroom. With Jen.”

“Yes. She just texted that she’s watching it. This must be a second snake.”

Brad shook his head. “No. It’s not possible. Two snakes?”

It was time to stop counting. The men, convinced that it was a coral snake, watched Brad crash the machete down.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the house, I heard the commotion.

“The snake is in here,” I yelled, my thigh trembling.

Finally, I heard the trio approach. My husband next needed to pick the lock, as I had locked it given the nature of my earlier activity. The snake waited just inside our bedroom door. And I waited a few feet away from the snake.

When the men entered, I didn’t notice their faces. My gaze was pinned to the floor. I watched a large wooden object come down upon the creature and recognized the chunk of wood. It was from part of a limbo stick game, a piece from the standalone structure designed to hold the bar one wiggles beneath. Once the winner of countless limbo contests from New York down to the Caribbean, I doubt the fake hip will ever manage that dance again. Blood stained the wood. So be it.

The wood lifted off the snake, who was now curled up in a ball, and like a spring, it bounced. Brad dove in with the trapper box and scooped it away. This could be an actual sport. Snake Bounce in the Box.

Together, the men carried the second snake outdoors where they ensured its demise and disposed of the remains beside the other one’s. I wondered if the snakes were lovers or just friends.

The guys next surveyed the perimeter of the house. Both inside and out. One snake was one snake. But two snakes could mean many.

“At least they weren’t poisonous,” I said, “But I don’t know how we can sleep here.”

The men insisted the snakes were the venomous coral kind, but my Facebook post had yielded a unanimous opinion: not deadly. The trio looked guilty. My husband later admitted he’d asked for forgiveness. “I don’t like killing any of Hashem’s creatures.”

I couldn’t fall asleep after that. I tried to comfort myself. I thought about The Holy Chutzpah here, and how this post was going to practically write itself come morning.

In lieu of slumber, I reviewed all the texts and messages I’d earlier received. I learned there is significant spiritual meaning assigned to female orgasm in conjunction with snake sightings.

A friend, Kati, who is also one of my writing mentors, had posted this upon my Facebook thread: “You weren't kidding about your life suddenly getting excessively spiritual. I'm not sure I've ever seen someone stalked by snakes IN their home.”

And she didn’t even know about the orgasm yet.

It all seemed a bit on the nose, sex and snakes. But why were there two snakes in my Garden of Eden?

Other friends had sent me similar opinions. My friend, Paula, who is a practitioner of Kundalini yoga and owns an interior decorating business that specializes in creating sacred spaces, wrote me this:

“First of all,…congrats on the [post operative] orgasm! Snakes symbolize Shakti energy. Which is feminine energy. They symbolize creation, empowerment, pleasure, enlightenment! Kundalini is the energy that lives at the base of the spine. And it’s symbolized by a snake coiled up as if it was dormant. When it’s awakened, it rises through the spine and awakens you to higher consciousness.”

Another friend, Stacy, had pointed out that snakes can symbolize wisdom.

I stared at the ceiling fan all night, trying to make sense of my spiritual self. Why, in the middle of converting to Judaism, is all this esoteric stuff popping up? I’ve heard of Jewish mysticism, but I’m currently learning about kosher foods for Passover. Kabbalah seems a bit advanced for someone whose last study session involved a conversation about pork.

Furthermore, what does Judaism have to say about sex? Does it have an opinion on female sexuality? What about orgasm and masturbation? I was raised in a Catholic home, and that religion was never the right fit for me. What if I’m simply migrating into another shame-based faith?

I’ve been immersed in Jewish community for three decades now. How have I never asked anyone about this? And is it okay I’m even writing about this here, under a newsletter named The Holy Chutzpah? Perhaps I’m not modest enough for any religious community. Never a docile girl, my fuck it attitude has only worsened with age. What happens to a Jewish woman who dares to sprinkle a little chutzpah on her sexuality?

I’m now tempted to text Olga again and ask her a bunch of Jewish sex questions, but since casting her in a Yoda-like role in an earlier post, I need to exercise some restraint here. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want our friendship to grow irredeemably asymmetrical due to my infinite curiosity about all things Jewish. I need to start spreading the inquiry around.

As for last night: If it had been any other creature invading my home, I might’ve carried on my night, shaken up but not mystified like this.

Two snakes. One garden. Who knows why?

Thanks for reading and goodnight!