I've gotten phone calls from family members and loved ones since this happened, and I've done pretty well sounding chipper and happy, like nothing's wrong. Oh yeah, I sound good, I'm just less mobile...that's the kind of mirth and levity I try to bring to phone calls.
Yeah, less mobile, that's it. I'm stuck. I'm a prisoner of my own apartment and the two hardest and most painful things I do revolve using the toilet. I hate not being able to bathe normally; not being able to go downstairs and walk to the beach or the coffee shop to work on my novel. I can't move my car for street cleaning. I can't wash dishes or make dinners or go shopping for food or cruise around on my bike to clear my head--which is ever increasingly filling with Vicodin.
It's just one of those things, I tell myself. I had been planning that trip to a campsite to sequester myself for the first draft work, but now, since that's not happening for a while, I'm facing the prospect of having to do that here...which shouldn't be so bad, since one of the themes is the uneasy relationship between sanity and solitude. No, this should be good.
Constant pain and un-comfort do wonders for artistic creativity.
Also, a note about health insurance: my mom was very nervous about the outcome of this whole thing upon our finances due to the state of my current health insurance (which is none).
I did have a few incidences where the bureaucracy was maddening: I asked the gentleman who was taking my vitals one night if he could please take the blanket off of my left foot. I was laying in bed with my left leg splinted one night before surgery and the last nurse had covered my legs up with the blanket, and right then the weight on my foot was no longer bearable, and I was having a hard time rolling the blanket off. The man taking my vitals told me he would notify my nurse, as if he wasn't allowed to deal with patients in that kind of direct manner. Maybe that's the case, but you can't convince that's efficient. Maybe efficient at not getting sued, but in the end the patient suffers.
That's another thing, the suffering patient. At certain points I got the idea that that's just how it's supposed to work. Like everyone knows that since you don't have insurance, you're just going to have to suffer a little more than if you were insured. Like American's tacitly agree that if you're in prison, being butt-raped is a regrettable, yet acceptable side effect, they seem to understand that if you're uninsured, well, then the wait's longer, the staff's overworked and underpaid, and you're experience will be different. I once complained to a nurse about the amount of bubbles in my IV drip. Well, I more or less brought it to her attention. I learned later that that had been an unlikely amount to have done me harm, but at the time it was nerve wracking. She bled the bubbles out and hooked me back up.
I wasn't planning on being uninsured. I was planning on not getting hurt though, and we can see how that played out. I must say that had I still been insured I would be screwed. I don't skateboard, or skydive, or race a car for fun or for money, and I don't really even drive on the LA freeways anymore, so I never would have had reason to spend more of my paycheck on better insurance to lower my deductible. That wasn't ever a thought, and since I ride my bike a lot, had this kind of freak accident happened when I still working for the corporation with that insurance, I would have sailed up to the ten-thousand dollar deductible pretty quick like, and be paying this off just like another credit-card or student loan--ie, for many years.
Not having insurance, and being sent to the UCLA-Harbor location had a few results: long wait-times and overworked staff; quality surgeons and overall care; a bill that we're going to be able to pay. See, this isn't going to be free, but we're being billed based on our income level, and we're imagining it'll be reasonable.
What they should do is just lump all of the uninsured people into a group, charge us ten bucks a month, and voila! You have the largest and most powerful negotiating group of insured people in the state, and there's no-one left uninsured.
Whatever. The recovery is underway. The swelling is gone, and the bruising is going away. Sleeping at night is the third worst thing I regularly do, but it's too hard to explain what's up there.
I go in for a follow up on July 2nd, and since I can begin to flex my knee, maybe I'll get instructions on the right course for physical therapy.
Tuxedo is having a hard time with it all. He's scared of the crutches, he's confused why I won't play with him or why I'm so jumpy about him walking on me while I'm laid up. He and I are both trying to adjust.
Se la vie.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Long Night After Surgery
After scarfing my dinner back in my suite after it was all said and done, and had talked to Corrie and sent a few other texts, my evening slowed down.
Corrie visited and eventually went home, and I learned that I might be able to leave the next day, on Tuesday. It all pretty much centered on my pain levels. Since the nerve block had stopped around the time I woke up after the surgery, there wasn't a shoe waiting to drop that I was waiting for, so it was really about me. Maybe I'm hasty about the nerve block, but the most it hurt after surgery was right when I woke up, and it kept around there for a good while, even with the morphine.
I had been having trouble with the urinal apparatus, and once the doctor said that because of the soft cast, moving around and letting gravity affect the wound was beneficial, so I decided to get up and use the bathroom when it came time to pee. But now I needed help getting down and then back up into bed. With the splint, I had mastered the art of extracting myself from the bed and replacing myself there, if not with "ease", then with a semblance of confidence.
I learned pretty quick that having my dangling foot bounce with each hop was one of the most painful things I've gotten into, and then peeing itself--balancing on my quivering right foot and holding my gown above my head, trying to stand above the bowl enough to leave my left hand free to balance on a crutch--quickly became the most painful.
Until...well, I'll hold on to some of the mystery...
But that first night, after Corrie left, they gave me two pills ("Anything you need for pain meds, we got you," I was told) and settled in for a nice sleep. I woke up,had to pee, and so called for the medic to help me out of bed. It turned out it wasn't midnight yet, and I'd slept for maybe seventy minutes. Shit.
The nurse came in and I had to explain what I was asking for, because getting out of bed was along the same lines it seemed to them as hammering my skull. Now, every single time I rang for help during this evening, it was a completely different nurse, and each new person I had to explain my situation to. It got old, but maybe not as old as my desire to get out of bed and pee.
Once I returned I asked for some more meds, and the nurse brought me a shot of morphine. Sweet, I thought. Now I should be able to get some sleep.
Soon enough, I was awake, sweaty, and needed to pee. This time it was 1:13. Maybe I lasted another seventy minutes. After getting out and back and a new set of meds, I was given another pair of pills, and headed off to slumber.
Apparently during surgery they flood your body with fluids, because again I was up, only this time it was after 4:30, so maybe this time I got through a cycle. Only this time there was excitement a brewin'.
I could hear a deep voice in the hallway absolutely hollering, "I'M IN PAIN! I KNOW MY RIGHTS AS A PATIENT! YOU NEED TO GIVE ME MEDICINE!" I imagined a burly biker guy with long stringy hair for some reason. He was making a damn scene. "GIVE ME MEDICINE! YOU'RE REQUIRED TO GIVE ME MED..." He was going on and on, and eventually he came to throwing stuff off of counters and onto the floor, and then you could hear, "I DEMAND TO BE SENT TO A DIFFERENT FUCKING HOSPITAL!" Then you could hear somebody engaging him in dialogue and it sounded like a muffled reasonable person, to which he responded, "OH FUCK YOU MENTAL HEALTH STATUS! I JUST NEED MEDICINE! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO TREAT A PATIENT!" Honestly, that kinda cracked me up.
Over the intercom you could also hear the repetitive "Code 3, 4-E. Code 3, 4-E. Code 3, 4-E," which must have been some kind of distress call.
Eventually he was subdued and a nurse showed up and helped me out, and I was excited to get some pills instead of the shot, because they sure seemed to work better. He brought me the shot. "I was hoping for pills," I plaintively said, to which he responded, "Nah, the rotation's on the morphine now." Worse things could be the case I figured.
This time, though, the shot of morphine I could feel wash over my arm and chest to my other arm, and then percolate to the rest of my body. I became short of breath and high as a fucking kite. Sleep was what I wanted, but that was almost out of the question. I had to take stock of each of the cells in my body, and then my brain ran through an entire story about a meatball that showed the ineptitude of every facet of the overworked and underpaid staff for a hospital for-the-uninsured (I call it Floored!, (coming soon)), and then I maybe drifted off, when I could hear myself breathing.
I may have made it until dawn, or daybreak, but again I was up. Man, they must have jammed me full of fluids...
That entire night was a blur of struggling to get to the toilet, that yelling guy, meatballs, morphine and narco pills. The next evening I was heading home. Now I was free to struggle naked if I wanted. Now I could watch something or nothing, and I wouldn't have to listen to the other folks' stupid channels. Now I was free to be alone and on my own terms, to gauge the recovery as I see fit (or, rather, as Corrie sees fit).
Even if I can't get around so well, I like it being on my terms, or me and Corrie's terms, instead of the hospital's. That place...I just couldn't hang out there anymore. Once what they could offer could be offered at home, I knew it was time to split.
Corrie visited and eventually went home, and I learned that I might be able to leave the next day, on Tuesday. It all pretty much centered on my pain levels. Since the nerve block had stopped around the time I woke up after the surgery, there wasn't a shoe waiting to drop that I was waiting for, so it was really about me. Maybe I'm hasty about the nerve block, but the most it hurt after surgery was right when I woke up, and it kept around there for a good while, even with the morphine.
I had been having trouble with the urinal apparatus, and once the doctor said that because of the soft cast, moving around and letting gravity affect the wound was beneficial, so I decided to get up and use the bathroom when it came time to pee. But now I needed help getting down and then back up into bed. With the splint, I had mastered the art of extracting myself from the bed and replacing myself there, if not with "ease", then with a semblance of confidence.
I learned pretty quick that having my dangling foot bounce with each hop was one of the most painful things I've gotten into, and then peeing itself--balancing on my quivering right foot and holding my gown above my head, trying to stand above the bowl enough to leave my left hand free to balance on a crutch--quickly became the most painful.
Until...well, I'll hold on to some of the mystery...
But that first night, after Corrie left, they gave me two pills ("Anything you need for pain meds, we got you," I was told) and settled in for a nice sleep. I woke up,had to pee, and so called for the medic to help me out of bed. It turned out it wasn't midnight yet, and I'd slept for maybe seventy minutes. Shit.
The nurse came in and I had to explain what I was asking for, because getting out of bed was along the same lines it seemed to them as hammering my skull. Now, every single time I rang for help during this evening, it was a completely different nurse, and each new person I had to explain my situation to. It got old, but maybe not as old as my desire to get out of bed and pee.
Once I returned I asked for some more meds, and the nurse brought me a shot of morphine. Sweet, I thought. Now I should be able to get some sleep.
Soon enough, I was awake, sweaty, and needed to pee. This time it was 1:13. Maybe I lasted another seventy minutes. After getting out and back and a new set of meds, I was given another pair of pills, and headed off to slumber.
Apparently during surgery they flood your body with fluids, because again I was up, only this time it was after 4:30, so maybe this time I got through a cycle. Only this time there was excitement a brewin'.
I could hear a deep voice in the hallway absolutely hollering, "I'M IN PAIN! I KNOW MY RIGHTS AS A PATIENT! YOU NEED TO GIVE ME MEDICINE!" I imagined a burly biker guy with long stringy hair for some reason. He was making a damn scene. "GIVE ME MEDICINE! YOU'RE REQUIRED TO GIVE ME MED..." He was going on and on, and eventually he came to throwing stuff off of counters and onto the floor, and then you could hear, "I DEMAND TO BE SENT TO A DIFFERENT FUCKING HOSPITAL!" Then you could hear somebody engaging him in dialogue and it sounded like a muffled reasonable person, to which he responded, "OH FUCK YOU MENTAL HEALTH STATUS! I JUST NEED MEDICINE! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO TREAT A PATIENT!" Honestly, that kinda cracked me up.
Over the intercom you could also hear the repetitive "Code 3, 4-E. Code 3, 4-E. Code 3, 4-E," which must have been some kind of distress call.
Eventually he was subdued and a nurse showed up and helped me out, and I was excited to get some pills instead of the shot, because they sure seemed to work better. He brought me the shot. "I was hoping for pills," I plaintively said, to which he responded, "Nah, the rotation's on the morphine now." Worse things could be the case I figured.
This time, though, the shot of morphine I could feel wash over my arm and chest to my other arm, and then percolate to the rest of my body. I became short of breath and high as a fucking kite. Sleep was what I wanted, but that was almost out of the question. I had to take stock of each of the cells in my body, and then my brain ran through an entire story about a meatball that showed the ineptitude of every facet of the overworked and underpaid staff for a hospital for-the-uninsured (I call it Floored!, (coming soon)), and then I maybe drifted off, when I could hear myself breathing.
I may have made it until dawn, or daybreak, but again I was up. Man, they must have jammed me full of fluids...
That entire night was a blur of struggling to get to the toilet, that yelling guy, meatballs, morphine and narco pills. The next evening I was heading home. Now I was free to struggle naked if I wanted. Now I could watch something or nothing, and I wouldn't have to listen to the other folks' stupid channels. Now I was free to be alone and on my own terms, to gauge the recovery as I see fit (or, rather, as Corrie sees fit).
Even if I can't get around so well, I like it being on my terms, or me and Corrie's terms, instead of the hospital's. That place...I just couldn't hang out there anymore. Once what they could offer could be offered at home, I knew it was time to split.
Under the Knife
"So, no foods or drinks for you today, okay?" one of the nurses said on Monday morning. "I'll bring you your IV drip." This was the day; I would be going under today. They had to reattach that big shard of bone, and they were trying to get it done before lunch.
Breakfast cane and went and my stomach growled. The reception on my little television was rather poor, and everything at that hour sucked anyway. As some vitals were being checked on the other sides of curtains another strange orderly or nurse came along and asked if I'd been marked. I had been, the day before.
Then they asked me if they'd come to get me yet. Um, I'm still here, aren't I, was my response, and they nodded and left. Must be getting close. Then somebody came by with word that anytime they'd be sending for me. It wasn't quite noon yet. I called Corrie and told her that "anytime" was upon us, and there would be a communication blackout, like when the shuttle reenters the atmosphere.
Not too much later really a large black lady came through with a serious stretcher/gurney. It was finally my turn. I did have to hoist myself up onto the thing, and I might have been a little too big for it; my feet dangled off the end and my head was mostly over the other edge, if still supported by a pillow. It was almost comical.
The lady wheeled me down the hall and towards a service elevator. A piercing alarm was sounding, and once in the halls I could notice the tiny strobe lights attached to the fire alarms were flickering. "Is there a fire drill going on?" I asked, noticing the obvious and hoping it wasn't serious.
"Every damn day," she tells me, "Every day they run a fire drill. Mmmh-mnh. Nobody's goan believe when they really do have a fire." She'd pressed down on the emergency freight elevator button, and the doors opened and an older black lady was inside, upset now. "I was going up..." My escort said, "Well this is a service elevator and we heading down. When you see they have doors on two sides of the elevator," motioning to the doors on the opposite side of the doors we entered, "you got to know this elevator is for patients," all the while we were moving in and the older lady was walking out, mostly upset. On the ride down I agreed repeatedly with my escort about how some people just don't pay enough attention and get a bad attitude.
I was deposited in a futuristic like MASH triage room. Gurney's were strewn, nurses walked around with blue hairnets, they joked with each other in code, and there were repetitive sound effects regularly sounding, like robot crickets.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP!
Then a series of nurses and orderlies would come over and take vitals, hook up weird diodes to my hairy chest, and tell me the anesthesiologist, or one them anyway, was on their way. Then a third robot cricket started to chime in, somewhere in the distance between the close long sound and the farther, shorter sound:
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
Soon a lady named Dr. Castroi came along and started to ask me questions. She was an anesthesiologist and was there to perform the nerve block on my left leg. It was supposed to last something like 20 hours, so it should cover the entire first day. Was I interested in that? Um, yes. Hook it up, please.
A guy showed up, calling himself Dr. Dewitt, and explained that he was going to wash the area where they were going to need to use the sonogram to find the nerve. This area was on my left hip. Dr. Dewitt mentioned that the washing liquid is kinda like alcohol, and that if it were to roll down onto my testes, that it will burn, and that I wouldn't be able to touch it to offer relief if that were the case.
Dr. Castro came over and started using the sonogram, and it looked pretty cool. I'd never seen my muscles and nerve bundles before. At one point the relationship between Castro and Dewitt became clear. Dr. Dewitt, upon spotting something on the sonogram screen said, "Ooh, what's that?" It was a highly dense looking grape sized bundle. The manner with which Dr. Castro answered cleared up everything: "Lymph node?" with the upward lilt. She was the student, and he was the teacher. (She was right.) They found the nerve bundle, and then she stabbed a long needle like thing into my hip muscle, and started to flood the nerve with marcaine.
They told me, as the flooded it, that my leg would start to feel heavy, and then warm, before it started to numb up. "Do you feel it yet?" the young lady asked.
"Well, I'm a little more focused on the fiery salve that's on my testicles right now." That was true. My balls were on fire. Dewitt, the guy, started cracking up, while Castro, the young lady was confused and disarmed.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
My leg finally went numb, and the eventually wheeled me out into the hall way. These halls down by the operating rooms were more cluttered than the mud room where they fitted me with the splint. Whole wings blocked off by equipment. Groups of surgeons shooting the breeze as if they were gathered at a water cooler, nurses bickering with orderlies about where to put us patients, and all the while my head and feet over laying the undersized gurney I was on.
They decided to move me over (once they found a larger gurney), then got into an argument about which of us got which room, then, once that was settled, I was set up outside the OR as folks were getting it ready. There I had a long chat with the Aussie anesthesiologist about what the yummy cocktail of knock-out drugs I was getting. Fentanyl, propofol, and a few others, and gas to keep me asleep. Then she gave me a shot, a Hello cocktail to make me loopy for the last ten minutes before they put me down, and I started to feel real groovy.
The moved me into the operating room, and as they shifted me to the big gurney, I was having fun noticing the two futuristic large industrial circular apparatuses, likely lights (if so, they were off). I started to say something, and the nurse removed my oxygen mask (soon to be gas) to hear me.
"I've seen this episode of The X-Files," I managed. That got some smiles and chuckles, another serious shot in the IV opening on my arm, and then I was out.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
I came to back in the same room with the robot crickets. And my leg was killing me. That twenty hours seemed to be up pretty quick. They hit me up with five shots of morphine and after a few minutes wheeled me back to the room with Mister Anthony, the Spanish GSW, and Steroid/Colon Window guy.
They were pretty surprised that I'd worn that nerve block off, but somehow I had. That made the rest of the day and that first long night quite uncomfortable.
Breakfast cane and went and my stomach growled. The reception on my little television was rather poor, and everything at that hour sucked anyway. As some vitals were being checked on the other sides of curtains another strange orderly or nurse came along and asked if I'd been marked. I had been, the day before.
Then they asked me if they'd come to get me yet. Um, I'm still here, aren't I, was my response, and they nodded and left. Must be getting close. Then somebody came by with word that anytime they'd be sending for me. It wasn't quite noon yet. I called Corrie and told her that "anytime" was upon us, and there would be a communication blackout, like when the shuttle reenters the atmosphere.
Not too much later really a large black lady came through with a serious stretcher/gurney. It was finally my turn. I did have to hoist myself up onto the thing, and I might have been a little too big for it; my feet dangled off the end and my head was mostly over the other edge, if still supported by a pillow. It was almost comical.
The lady wheeled me down the hall and towards a service elevator. A piercing alarm was sounding, and once in the halls I could notice the tiny strobe lights attached to the fire alarms were flickering. "Is there a fire drill going on?" I asked, noticing the obvious and hoping it wasn't serious.
"Every damn day," she tells me, "Every day they run a fire drill. Mmmh-mnh. Nobody's goan believe when they really do have a fire." She'd pressed down on the emergency freight elevator button, and the doors opened and an older black lady was inside, upset now. "I was going up..." My escort said, "Well this is a service elevator and we heading down. When you see they have doors on two sides of the elevator," motioning to the doors on the opposite side of the doors we entered, "you got to know this elevator is for patients," all the while we were moving in and the older lady was walking out, mostly upset. On the ride down I agreed repeatedly with my escort about how some people just don't pay enough attention and get a bad attitude.
I was deposited in a futuristic like MASH triage room. Gurney's were strewn, nurses walked around with blue hairnets, they joked with each other in code, and there were repetitive sound effects regularly sounding, like robot crickets.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP!
Then a series of nurses and orderlies would come over and take vitals, hook up weird diodes to my hairy chest, and tell me the anesthesiologist, or one them anyway, was on their way. Then a third robot cricket started to chime in, somewhere in the distance between the close long sound and the farther, shorter sound:
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
Soon a lady named Dr. Castroi came along and started to ask me questions. She was an anesthesiologist and was there to perform the nerve block on my left leg. It was supposed to last something like 20 hours, so it should cover the entire first day. Was I interested in that? Um, yes. Hook it up, please.
A guy showed up, calling himself Dr. Dewitt, and explained that he was going to wash the area where they were going to need to use the sonogram to find the nerve. This area was on my left hip. Dr. Dewitt mentioned that the washing liquid is kinda like alcohol, and that if it were to roll down onto my testes, that it will burn, and that I wouldn't be able to touch it to offer relief if that were the case.
Dr. Castro came over and started using the sonogram, and it looked pretty cool. I'd never seen my muscles and nerve bundles before. At one point the relationship between Castro and Dewitt became clear. Dr. Dewitt, upon spotting something on the sonogram screen said, "Ooh, what's that?" It was a highly dense looking grape sized bundle. The manner with which Dr. Castro answered cleared up everything: "Lymph node?" with the upward lilt. She was the student, and he was the teacher. (She was right.) They found the nerve bundle, and then she stabbed a long needle like thing into my hip muscle, and started to flood the nerve with marcaine.
They told me, as the flooded it, that my leg would start to feel heavy, and then warm, before it started to numb up. "Do you feel it yet?" the young lady asked.
"Well, I'm a little more focused on the fiery salve that's on my testicles right now." That was true. My balls were on fire. Dewitt, the guy, started cracking up, while Castro, the young lady was confused and disarmed.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
My leg finally went numb, and the eventually wheeled me out into the hall way. These halls down by the operating rooms were more cluttered than the mud room where they fitted me with the splint. Whole wings blocked off by equipment. Groups of surgeons shooting the breeze as if they were gathered at a water cooler, nurses bickering with orderlies about where to put us patients, and all the while my head and feet over laying the undersized gurney I was on.
They decided to move me over (once they found a larger gurney), then got into an argument about which of us got which room, then, once that was settled, I was set up outside the OR as folks were getting it ready. There I had a long chat with the Aussie anesthesiologist about what the yummy cocktail of knock-out drugs I was getting. Fentanyl, propofol, and a few others, and gas to keep me asleep. Then she gave me a shot, a Hello cocktail to make me loopy for the last ten minutes before they put me down, and I started to feel real groovy.
The moved me into the operating room, and as they shifted me to the big gurney, I was having fun noticing the two futuristic large industrial circular apparatuses, likely lights (if so, they were off). I started to say something, and the nurse removed my oxygen mask (soon to be gas) to hear me.
"I've seen this episode of The X-Files," I managed. That got some smiles and chuckles, another serious shot in the IV opening on my arm, and then I was out.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BOOOP-Bip!
I came to back in the same room with the robot crickets. And my leg was killing me. That twenty hours seemed to be up pretty quick. They hit me up with five shots of morphine and after a few minutes wheeled me back to the room with Mister Anthony, the Spanish GSW, and Steroid/Colon Window guy.
They were pretty surprised that I'd worn that nerve block off, but somehow I had. That made the rest of the day and that first long night quite uncomfortable.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Behind the Curtain
Inside the room where I "slept", like any longer-term spot in a regular hospital, the four spots that held people were basically "rooms". These rooms were separated by curtains. Curtains.
Now most people, if they've seen any televisions shows or films about hospitals, are going to be aware of these separators, and you might be able to get a sense of the privacy those who happen to be living behind them ascribe to them. I can tell you, though, from experience, when you are there, that's not just a game of "privacy ascription", that's how you live. That's just the way it is. Those curtains are sound proof and no vision of what happens inside can ever escape. Now, the factuality of that statement is demonstrably false, but you just live like it's the only truth in the world.
It's kinda neat. Doctors come, ask questions; flatulence occurs; sponge baths happen...In the morning, with the sunlight coming in the window, my curtain with Mister Anthony was opaque as sheet-rock. But, once it got dark that sheet turned into a shadow puppet free-for-all. (This also implies that during the day my room was as visible to Mister Anthony as his was to me during the evening, but that's a thought you steadfastly ignore during your stay.)
Things happened behind that curtain that I couldn't comprehend then or ever. Conversations were held--that I wasn't a part of obviously--topics so bizarre and fanciful that my drugged up brain could simply could be wrapped around.
It was part of the experience, putting your faith into cloth partitions.
Now most people, if they've seen any televisions shows or films about hospitals, are going to be aware of these separators, and you might be able to get a sense of the privacy those who happen to be living behind them ascribe to them. I can tell you, though, from experience, when you are there, that's not just a game of "privacy ascription", that's how you live. That's just the way it is. Those curtains are sound proof and no vision of what happens inside can ever escape. Now, the factuality of that statement is demonstrably false, but you just live like it's the only truth in the world.
It's kinda neat. Doctors come, ask questions; flatulence occurs; sponge baths happen...In the morning, with the sunlight coming in the window, my curtain with Mister Anthony was opaque as sheet-rock. But, once it got dark that sheet turned into a shadow puppet free-for-all. (This also implies that during the day my room was as visible to Mister Anthony as his was to me during the evening, but that's a thought you steadfastly ignore during your stay.)
Things happened behind that curtain that I couldn't comprehend then or ever. Conversations were held--that I wasn't a part of obviously--topics so bizarre and fanciful that my drugged up brain could simply could be wrapped around.
It was part of the experience, putting your faith into cloth partitions.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Room With a View
I was wheeled into a room on the 4th floor of the main building. I thought where they were taking me was 48-B. That's what I heard when the orthopedic resident repeated it back into the phone with the raising inflection of someone questioning or surprised upon hearing, I'm guessing, my destination.
It turned out to be 4-E-8-B, as in fourth floor, East wing, room 8, bed B.
Well, good thing we got that cleared up.
The room had four beds spots, all separated by those curtains. We all pretend those curtains are as strong as rebar and cinder-block, but that's fodder for another post.
My bed was next to our side, A and B's side, of the window, so I had a pretty nice view of beautiful Torrance.
Since it faced north, I wasn't ever bothered by direct sun. That first night was loud and restless, and from where my head laid, if I faced the window, my view was of only a night sky and a bright orange moon...but it wasn't our lunar satellite, it was a glowing Shell sign.
I couldn't even see tree tops from where my head laid, just purple sky and the orange scallop glowing softly in the short distance.
That first night was difficult. I wasn't sure I was getting any sleep. There were nurses coming in at all hours, doing things to the other three guys, who, at that time, I had no idea what was medically up with them. Noises, orderlies waking me up, taking my vitals, coughing, joking and prodding a neighbor--"Oh, Mister Anthony, you know you need your insulin," and endless discussions about the lone Spanish-only guy, in the C-spot mostly blocking the bathroom door. His was a GSW, and there was always some major issue that needed discussion. (That's a Gun-Shot Wound for the uninitiated.)
I swear there are hostels in Prague with retching Spaniard birthday boys that are easier to sleep inside than that room on the first night.
Mister Anthony, to my right, in the A-spot, had, besides diabetes, major issues with his feet and legs, and some kind of blood issue. He looked like one of the guys you see all gnarled and smelly passed out on the A-train at 3:30 in the morning. Been there, so I have some idea on what I'm talking about.
Across from me, in the D-spot, was young black man who had been receiving steroid treatment as well as treatment for major colon issues. His doctors would come through usually during the late morning. One was a young lady who's face I never saw. I did catch her voice first, then saw her figure and how her short hair was kept, and, you know, I realized I didn't need to see her face.
Getting up and out of the bed was always a challenge, as was sleeping, but things changed in the few days I stayed there.
After the first or second day they moved all of us down to room 10, so the new spot was 4E-10B, but really sleeping remained the hard thing, and restroom trips remained the hardest thing.
That's still pretty much the same now, while I recover at home.
It turned out to be 4-E-8-B, as in fourth floor, East wing, room 8, bed B.
Well, good thing we got that cleared up.
The room had four beds spots, all separated by those curtains. We all pretend those curtains are as strong as rebar and cinder-block, but that's fodder for another post.
My bed was next to our side, A and B's side, of the window, so I had a pretty nice view of beautiful Torrance.
Since it faced north, I wasn't ever bothered by direct sun. That first night was loud and restless, and from where my head laid, if I faced the window, my view was of only a night sky and a bright orange moon...but it wasn't our lunar satellite, it was a glowing Shell sign.
I couldn't even see tree tops from where my head laid, just purple sky and the orange scallop glowing softly in the short distance.
That first night was difficult. I wasn't sure I was getting any sleep. There were nurses coming in at all hours, doing things to the other three guys, who, at that time, I had no idea what was medically up with them. Noises, orderlies waking me up, taking my vitals, coughing, joking and prodding a neighbor--"Oh, Mister Anthony, you know you need your insulin," and endless discussions about the lone Spanish-only guy, in the C-spot mostly blocking the bathroom door. His was a GSW, and there was always some major issue that needed discussion. (That's a Gun-Shot Wound for the uninitiated.)
I swear there are hostels in Prague with retching Spaniard birthday boys that are easier to sleep inside than that room on the first night.
Mister Anthony, to my right, in the A-spot, had, besides diabetes, major issues with his feet and legs, and some kind of blood issue. He looked like one of the guys you see all gnarled and smelly passed out on the A-train at 3:30 in the morning. Been there, so I have some idea on what I'm talking about.
Across from me, in the D-spot, was young black man who had been receiving steroid treatment as well as treatment for major colon issues. His doctors would come through usually during the late morning. One was a young lady who's face I never saw. I did catch her voice first, then saw her figure and how her short hair was kept, and, you know, I realized I didn't need to see her face.
Getting up and out of the bed was always a challenge, as was sleeping, but things changed in the few days I stayed there.
After the first or second day they moved all of us down to room 10, so the new spot was 4E-10B, but really sleeping remained the hard thing, and restroom trips remained the hardest thing.
That's still pretty much the same now, while I recover at home.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Fall Risk
Corrie found me mostly asleep in the same spot I laid when I unplugged my phone, called her, hung up, and then faded in and out.
She got the directions, we changed my pants, and then I hobbled back to the stairs, and now with a little more energy, hopped down the stairs. I laid across the back seat, and sped off to Torrance.
She dropped me off at the front door and went to find a parking spot. I hobbled in and got in line at the security gate. A metal detector. Great. Now my knee is throbbing and there's a security clearance...but okay, that's just how it is in this place, you get used to weird things like that when you don't have insurance and have a catastrophic injury. Well, maybe "catastrophic" is a bit melodramatic, but you get my drift.
Some security. The lady running the metal detector just waved me through, around the side technically.
First I went into the "Urgent Care" room, which was behind a heavy door. Agony showed on my face and sweat beaded along my brow and cheeks, and the lady behind the counter asked me if I'd made an appointment. It was 3 pm, maybe three hours since the incident itself. I laughed through gritted teeth and gave a quick explanation.
She said I needed to go down the hall to the ER. Sure, the ER, that makes sense. Awesome.
I went down the hall and there were three windows: one that had a long line, labeled "Registration"; one that had a single person, labeled "Check In"; and one labeled "Info" that didn't even have an attendant.
I stood in the Registration line for a few minutes, and then went over to the newly vacated Check In line. They gave me a brown caredit-card looking ID thing, with my name, date of birth, and hospital ID number newly embossed upon it, and sent me over to the Registration side, which was now open.
Over there I explained a little of what was going on, my situation, I saw Corrie come in and go into the Urgent Care room as I waved in vain, my sweat dripped onto the counter as I signed my name on various papers, and I wobbled precariously on my crutches. The lady reached over and put on a plastic bracelet. It was bright yellow and had FALL RISK printed on it. Then she put another bracelet on; this one had the same info as the brown card.
Then I had a seat. Next to a dope fiend. You betcha. The emergency room was mostly packed full, and there were only a few random seats open, but no two together, so I chose the easiest seat to get into: at the end of a row. Right next to me was a sleeping doper, snoring and coughing intermittently
I guess it makes sense...if you're going to overdose on heroin, you might as well be in a hospital. So she didn't OD, she just passed out. Eventually she roused after Corrie brought me a chicken burger from a place walking distance away from the ER--I was starving something fierce and the docs at that first Urgent Care in Long Beach had given me two bomber Ibuprofen and by this time, the waiting, I wasn't sure if I was going to faint or vomit.
But Corrie brought me the chicken burger and the doper kinda woke up, and then asked if she could have some of if I wasn't gonna finish it. I thought Corrie was going to beat her ass right there in the waiting room. Corrie gets more cranky than I do when it comes to hunger, and, she gets hungry more often. And, by this time she herself was starving, and, standing above me, she sternly declared, "I'm getting what he's not eating."
Then I waited. And waited. To be fair, some people probably waited longer. But, they weren't in the immediate state I was. I was called back the first time within the first hour, and gave my story to a nurse as she took my vitals.
Within the next hour I was called in to talk to an actual doctor, who made as her first prognosis the call for an X-ray, and then we'd be able to see from there what to do. Maybe it was just sprained, in which case I'd only need a brace. But we'd not know the severity of the sprain until after we make sure it wasn't broken with the X-ray. Now I was free to go back to waiting until they called me for the X-ray.
About how long was that going to be, I asked. As soon as we get everything ready. Okay. In two and a half hours I'd had about four minutes of face time, but it was a Friday, and the place was becoming a bit of zoo. And if you don't have money or insurance, or either, this is just what a hospital experience is.
Really, the X-ray call for me came within fifteen minutes of that chat, maybe less. I was the last of the group to get my leg X-rayed, and had a little fun banter with the radiologist, an Asian man who'd been doing that job for the past fifty years. He was good humored to say the least. I even made a joke about protecting my taint with lead, and he either got it or laughed because he knew it was something he should have gotten, but the laugh made it sound like he truly got.
Then more waiting until another talk with the doctor about the results of the X-ray. It turned out my leg was broken, please come this way and we'll get you ready for an CT Scan, we need a little more info on the fracture to be able to decide whether to just put you in a cast and have it set, or if it'll be more complicated than that. By now I had Corrie coming along with me.
I had the CT Scan, and then went and waited some more. I sat next to an older Mexican gentleman. We mixed enough broken English and Spanish to get to the bottom of our situations. I told him that we'd been for four whole hours, the bastards, but you know I'm cynical enough to have harbored no illusions about how things would transpire at Harbor UCLA. He said he'd been there since six in the morning. Waiting then going on thirteen hours.
Holy shit! What was he in for? Cancer treatment. Oh. Well, shit. Where is the last possible place you'd ever want to go for cancer treatment (I mean in a hospital setting)? Maybe the Emergency Room? But when you don't have insurance or money that's not earmarked for certain things, the ER is your only connection to doctorly things.
Then they called me back to discuss the CT Scan results, but the office was crowded and I couldn't sit, and even if the people had gotten up, I'm not sure I could have pulled myself out of the chair had I sat down. And, by now, my right leg is beginning to twitch as well. The lady there said that we needed to go upstairs to the mud room and get fitted for a cast.
Well that didn't sound so bad. 'Bout time we got something that resembled a way forward.
But the lady couldn't find any of the wheel chairs, so I was on my own for hoofing it up to the elevator, and then to the mud room.
In the mud room the cast guys said they'd take a look at the CT Scan and let us know how the cast would go. The mud room was dirty, filthy really, with a fine dusty film covering most everything. It was cluttered too, really cluttered with all sorts of hospital equipment...all covered in clay dust.
After maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, the doctor returned and said, "So, your femur's broken and you're going to need surgery. And we'll get you checked in tonight. For surgery on Monday."
Tonight? Surgery after the weekend? Tonight? Dammit, I was looking forward to a beer when we got home, you know, just one with the meds.
The splinted my leg up and because of the clutter, I had Corrie take a picture with my phone of the CT Scan of the fracture. The clutter prevented me from being able to see the screen. Seriously.
After the leg was splinted, it seemed like three people had done their jobs: one called to make sure a bed was available (one was); another was notified that an escort should be dispatched (maybe?); and somebody else probably felt smugly satisfied with their evening as well, I'm not sure.
What I do know is that it seemed like once those folks felt like they'd done their parts, they went ahead didn't pay it another thought, and Corrie and I sat with my leg splinted in the mud room for maybe a half an hour by ourselves. Nobody was even close by. When the young orthopedic resident came by and saw us, he was shocked we were still there. It only took another fifteen minutes to get it straightened out--that I did have a bed and that somebody was coming to get me and take me there.
Ah...what's it like to be uninsured...
(I make a lot of comments about the suffering of the poor and uninsured, but in a later commentary I'll make clear that had I been insured with my "managerial" insurance I'd have been screwed beyond belief with outrageous payments, and that being uninsured has actually been a saving grace.)
She got the directions, we changed my pants, and then I hobbled back to the stairs, and now with a little more energy, hopped down the stairs. I laid across the back seat, and sped off to Torrance.
She dropped me off at the front door and went to find a parking spot. I hobbled in and got in line at the security gate. A metal detector. Great. Now my knee is throbbing and there's a security clearance...but okay, that's just how it is in this place, you get used to weird things like that when you don't have insurance and have a catastrophic injury. Well, maybe "catastrophic" is a bit melodramatic, but you get my drift.
Some security. The lady running the metal detector just waved me through, around the side technically.
First I went into the "Urgent Care" room, which was behind a heavy door. Agony showed on my face and sweat beaded along my brow and cheeks, and the lady behind the counter asked me if I'd made an appointment. It was 3 pm, maybe three hours since the incident itself. I laughed through gritted teeth and gave a quick explanation.
She said I needed to go down the hall to the ER. Sure, the ER, that makes sense. Awesome.
I went down the hall and there were three windows: one that had a long line, labeled "Registration"; one that had a single person, labeled "Check In"; and one labeled "Info" that didn't even have an attendant.
I stood in the Registration line for a few minutes, and then went over to the newly vacated Check In line. They gave me a brown caredit-card looking ID thing, with my name, date of birth, and hospital ID number newly embossed upon it, and sent me over to the Registration side, which was now open.
Over there I explained a little of what was going on, my situation, I saw Corrie come in and go into the Urgent Care room as I waved in vain, my sweat dripped onto the counter as I signed my name on various papers, and I wobbled precariously on my crutches. The lady reached over and put on a plastic bracelet. It was bright yellow and had FALL RISK printed on it. Then she put another bracelet on; this one had the same info as the brown card.
Then I had a seat. Next to a dope fiend. You betcha. The emergency room was mostly packed full, and there were only a few random seats open, but no two together, so I chose the easiest seat to get into: at the end of a row. Right next to me was a sleeping doper, snoring and coughing intermittently
I guess it makes sense...if you're going to overdose on heroin, you might as well be in a hospital. So she didn't OD, she just passed out. Eventually she roused after Corrie brought me a chicken burger from a place walking distance away from the ER--I was starving something fierce and the docs at that first Urgent Care in Long Beach had given me two bomber Ibuprofen and by this time, the waiting, I wasn't sure if I was going to faint or vomit.
But Corrie brought me the chicken burger and the doper kinda woke up, and then asked if she could have some of if I wasn't gonna finish it. I thought Corrie was going to beat her ass right there in the waiting room. Corrie gets more cranky than I do when it comes to hunger, and, she gets hungry more often. And, by this time she herself was starving, and, standing above me, she sternly declared, "I'm getting what he's not eating."
Then I waited. And waited. To be fair, some people probably waited longer. But, they weren't in the immediate state I was. I was called back the first time within the first hour, and gave my story to a nurse as she took my vitals.
Within the next hour I was called in to talk to an actual doctor, who made as her first prognosis the call for an X-ray, and then we'd be able to see from there what to do. Maybe it was just sprained, in which case I'd only need a brace. But we'd not know the severity of the sprain until after we make sure it wasn't broken with the X-ray. Now I was free to go back to waiting until they called me for the X-ray.
About how long was that going to be, I asked. As soon as we get everything ready. Okay. In two and a half hours I'd had about four minutes of face time, but it was a Friday, and the place was becoming a bit of zoo. And if you don't have money or insurance, or either, this is just what a hospital experience is.
Really, the X-ray call for me came within fifteen minutes of that chat, maybe less. I was the last of the group to get my leg X-rayed, and had a little fun banter with the radiologist, an Asian man who'd been doing that job for the past fifty years. He was good humored to say the least. I even made a joke about protecting my taint with lead, and he either got it or laughed because he knew it was something he should have gotten, but the laugh made it sound like he truly got.
Then more waiting until another talk with the doctor about the results of the X-ray. It turned out my leg was broken, please come this way and we'll get you ready for an CT Scan, we need a little more info on the fracture to be able to decide whether to just put you in a cast and have it set, or if it'll be more complicated than that. By now I had Corrie coming along with me.
I had the CT Scan, and then went and waited some more. I sat next to an older Mexican gentleman. We mixed enough broken English and Spanish to get to the bottom of our situations. I told him that we'd been for four whole hours, the bastards, but you know I'm cynical enough to have harbored no illusions about how things would transpire at Harbor UCLA. He said he'd been there since six in the morning. Waiting then going on thirteen hours.
Holy shit! What was he in for? Cancer treatment. Oh. Well, shit. Where is the last possible place you'd ever want to go for cancer treatment (I mean in a hospital setting)? Maybe the Emergency Room? But when you don't have insurance or money that's not earmarked for certain things, the ER is your only connection to doctorly things.
Then they called me back to discuss the CT Scan results, but the office was crowded and I couldn't sit, and even if the people had gotten up, I'm not sure I could have pulled myself out of the chair had I sat down. And, by now, my right leg is beginning to twitch as well. The lady there said that we needed to go upstairs to the mud room and get fitted for a cast.
Well that didn't sound so bad. 'Bout time we got something that resembled a way forward.
But the lady couldn't find any of the wheel chairs, so I was on my own for hoofing it up to the elevator, and then to the mud room.
In the mud room the cast guys said they'd take a look at the CT Scan and let us know how the cast would go. The mud room was dirty, filthy really, with a fine dusty film covering most everything. It was cluttered too, really cluttered with all sorts of hospital equipment...all covered in clay dust.
After maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, the doctor returned and said, "So, your femur's broken and you're going to need surgery. And we'll get you checked in tonight. For surgery on Monday."
Tonight? Surgery after the weekend? Tonight? Dammit, I was looking forward to a beer when we got home, you know, just one with the meds.
The splinted my leg up and because of the clutter, I had Corrie take a picture with my phone of the CT Scan of the fracture. The clutter prevented me from being able to see the screen. Seriously.
After the leg was splinted, it seemed like three people had done their jobs: one called to make sure a bed was available (one was); another was notified that an escort should be dispatched (maybe?); and somebody else probably felt smugly satisfied with their evening as well, I'm not sure.
What I do know is that it seemed like once those folks felt like they'd done their parts, they went ahead didn't pay it another thought, and Corrie and I sat with my leg splinted in the mud room for maybe a half an hour by ourselves. Nobody was even close by. When the young orthopedic resident came by and saw us, he was shocked we were still there. It only took another fifteen minutes to get it straightened out--that I did have a bed and that somebody was coming to get me and take me there.
Ah...what's it like to be uninsured...
(I make a lot of comments about the suffering of the poor and uninsured, but in a later commentary I'll make clear that had I been insured with my "managerial" insurance I'd have been screwed beyond belief with outrageous payments, and that being uninsured has actually been a saving grace.)
Part Viking
I rode down Linden to the steep downhill slide, braked as I went down, saw no cars, and rolled through a stop sign onto the seldom used Seaside Ln. A few minutes before noon, and traffic was light as I headed west along Seaside. There was a large delivery truck dropping off supplies to the back side entrance to the Long Beach Convention Center, and for some reason, the light was green at Pine and I turned left, from Seaside onto Pine, without incident.
Heading down Pine I was coming to Shoreline, the block being the distance of the Convention Center. The only car at the intersection was turning left onto Shoreline, and as that was the basic direction I was going to go, as always, I got over into the left-turn lane. I know these lights, and I've done this maneuver before. The left-turn light flashes first, and the turners get to turn and the bikers like me usually scoot off out of the way and make a wide arc to the left and head up onto a wide sidewalk and slowly head over to the bike path.
That was the plan, as I've done it dozens of times before. Still headed over to get a few close up shots of that huge class of cruise ships, the Oasis Class. Only this time when I got out into the intersection, the chain popped off the sprockets.
This has happened before, and had caused more irritation than injury. It's just a shitty bicycle. DON'T BUY A MICARGI!
The chain popping off phenomenon has also altered the way I ride this bike, as in I don't pump hard like I used to with my cruiser, Dino.
Even so, at this point I was traveling with some speed. The second the chain came off, my legs lost all connection with the bike. My groin hit the seat as my hand fought to hold on to the bars. The bike careened wildly as drivers gawked and gasped. My left leg came down instinctually and tried to add some stability. It caved painfully but more or less righted the ship.
I wasn't sure how badly it was injured, or even that. At first, as I coasted to the side, I thought I might have just wrenched it. As my left foot hit the ground again it became clear that it was a little worse off. I got to a grassy area next to a sidewalk on the right side of a restaurant complex in front of which I originally was turning left. I tried to ignore the look; the angle that my calf was extending from my knee wasn't natural. As I sat on the grass, sweating and in a blinding type of pain, I pushed my leg back to a normal look. Here's a picture:
I contemplated what to do, how could I make it home, would I be sitting here all day, will this pain just sorta go away, I remembered that my phone was on it's charger at home, so I was mostly stuck with figuring out how to get somewhere without an un-affordable ambulance ride. After maybe ten or fifteen minutes, I figured I could get my bike going again, and maybe use it to get to the Urgent Care on the way to the house, or maybe all the way to the house.
Yeah...yeah, so that was the plan.
Sitting on the grass I pulled the bike close by, propped it up and forced the chain on. Then I somehow pulled myself up to a standing position, used my left hip to swing my damaged leg over the center bar, and pushed myself along with my right foot, sometimes like a skateboard and sometimes pedaling a half-circle.
Past halfway to the Urgent Care (which was pretty much halfway to my apartment) I needed to take a break. I paused on my bike, gritting my teeth through the pain, and then I lost my balance. I came down on my left leg and crashed on the sidewalk.
A holler erupted involuntary from inside. A rolly-poly looking guy reluctantly came over and asked if I was okay. I pulled the bike off and grunted, and a young brunette also came over. I said I was heading to the Urgent Care, not more than two blocks away and that I'd lost my balance. I went on to explain the situation, and the girl offered to run down and check the Urgent Care for a wheel chair, and the guy was going to help me get to one of the bus benches. Then he left. I could see the girl returning without the chair, apology written on her face for a pair of blocks.
They didn't have a wheel chair; I'd figured as much. I got back on my bike, thanked her, and as she went on her merry way, the corpulent guy returned and offered to help me walk on over to the clinic.
At the clinic I told them my story, that I didn't have insurance, and that I was in barely tolerable pain. The doctor gave me a few tests: pushing and pulling at different ways on my leg. One way wasn't too bad, one way had me yelling that "YES That way causes PAIN!"
They said that if they were to do some initial tests, like X-rays and then possibly MRIs, I wouldn't be able to be eligible for the cheap-to-free services available to low-income and uninsured patients. They said of my choices, if I wanted to utilize the uninsured hospital, I should either take a cab to that hospital or call for a ride to that hospital. I called Corrie's cell-phone from their phone, but it wasn't turned on, as is sometimes the case at work. Since my phone was still on the charger, I decided to buy crutches and hobble the rest of the way home.
That half-mile trek took maybe twenty minutes. I took many breaks.
When I got home I hopped up the stairs one at a time, and eventually collapsed into bed, soaking my shirts through with sweat (I'd dressed up for the Friday at the coffee shop--was wearing a wife-beater and a button up short sleeve shirt). That's where the phone charger was, and my phone, fully charged, was sitting.
I called Corrie, and in the clearest, calmest voice I could muster, I told her that I was pretty sure I needed a ride to the Harbor UCLA in Torrance, that uninsured hospital.
Then I went basically dozed off, and drifted in and out of twilight until Corrie got home.
That my femur could be broken was still not even a possibility in my brain. Not even an inkling.
Heading down Pine I was coming to Shoreline, the block being the distance of the Convention Center. The only car at the intersection was turning left onto Shoreline, and as that was the basic direction I was going to go, as always, I got over into the left-turn lane. I know these lights, and I've done this maneuver before. The left-turn light flashes first, and the turners get to turn and the bikers like me usually scoot off out of the way and make a wide arc to the left and head up onto a wide sidewalk and slowly head over to the bike path.
That was the plan, as I've done it dozens of times before. Still headed over to get a few close up shots of that huge class of cruise ships, the Oasis Class. Only this time when I got out into the intersection, the chain popped off the sprockets.
This has happened before, and had caused more irritation than injury. It's just a shitty bicycle. DON'T BUY A MICARGI!
The chain popping off phenomenon has also altered the way I ride this bike, as in I don't pump hard like I used to with my cruiser, Dino.
Even so, at this point I was traveling with some speed. The second the chain came off, my legs lost all connection with the bike. My groin hit the seat as my hand fought to hold on to the bars. The bike careened wildly as drivers gawked and gasped. My left leg came down instinctually and tried to add some stability. It caved painfully but more or less righted the ship.
I wasn't sure how badly it was injured, or even that. At first, as I coasted to the side, I thought I might have just wrenched it. As my left foot hit the ground again it became clear that it was a little worse off. I got to a grassy area next to a sidewalk on the right side of a restaurant complex in front of which I originally was turning left. I tried to ignore the look; the angle that my calf was extending from my knee wasn't natural. As I sat on the grass, sweating and in a blinding type of pain, I pushed my leg back to a normal look. Here's a picture:
I contemplated what to do, how could I make it home, would I be sitting here all day, will this pain just sorta go away, I remembered that my phone was on it's charger at home, so I was mostly stuck with figuring out how to get somewhere without an un-affordable ambulance ride. After maybe ten or fifteen minutes, I figured I could get my bike going again, and maybe use it to get to the Urgent Care on the way to the house, or maybe all the way to the house.
Yeah...yeah, so that was the plan.
Sitting on the grass I pulled the bike close by, propped it up and forced the chain on. Then I somehow pulled myself up to a standing position, used my left hip to swing my damaged leg over the center bar, and pushed myself along with my right foot, sometimes like a skateboard and sometimes pedaling a half-circle.
Past halfway to the Urgent Care (which was pretty much halfway to my apartment) I needed to take a break. I paused on my bike, gritting my teeth through the pain, and then I lost my balance. I came down on my left leg and crashed on the sidewalk.
A holler erupted involuntary from inside. A rolly-poly looking guy reluctantly came over and asked if I was okay. I pulled the bike off and grunted, and a young brunette also came over. I said I was heading to the Urgent Care, not more than two blocks away and that I'd lost my balance. I went on to explain the situation, and the girl offered to run down and check the Urgent Care for a wheel chair, and the guy was going to help me get to one of the bus benches. Then he left. I could see the girl returning without the chair, apology written on her face for a pair of blocks.
They didn't have a wheel chair; I'd figured as much. I got back on my bike, thanked her, and as she went on her merry way, the corpulent guy returned and offered to help me walk on over to the clinic.
At the clinic I told them my story, that I didn't have insurance, and that I was in barely tolerable pain. The doctor gave me a few tests: pushing and pulling at different ways on my leg. One way wasn't too bad, one way had me yelling that "YES That way causes PAIN!"
They said that if they were to do some initial tests, like X-rays and then possibly MRIs, I wouldn't be able to be eligible for the cheap-to-free services available to low-income and uninsured patients. They said of my choices, if I wanted to utilize the uninsured hospital, I should either take a cab to that hospital or call for a ride to that hospital. I called Corrie's cell-phone from their phone, but it wasn't turned on, as is sometimes the case at work. Since my phone was still on the charger, I decided to buy crutches and hobble the rest of the way home.
That half-mile trek took maybe twenty minutes. I took many breaks.
When I got home I hopped up the stairs one at a time, and eventually collapsed into bed, soaking my shirts through with sweat (I'd dressed up for the Friday at the coffee shop--was wearing a wife-beater and a button up short sleeve shirt). That's where the phone charger was, and my phone, fully charged, was sitting.
I called Corrie, and in the clearest, calmest voice I could muster, I told her that I was pretty sure I needed a ride to the Harbor UCLA in Torrance, that uninsured hospital.
Then I went basically dozed off, and drifted in and out of twilight until Corrie got home.
That my femur could be broken was still not even a possibility in my brain. Not even an inkling.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
View of the Oasis
The Blue Ray player we have has all sorts of very cool features. One being that it has an ever growing range of channels. The better known channels you have to pay for, of course, and we do pay for the Netflix channel, but there are plenty that have free content. One has golf tips that looked like they could actually help. Another has a set of entertaining histories about the video game industry.
One that Corrie and I came across was a twenty-two minute show about the history of the Queen Mary--the ship that's permanently moored here in Long Beach. That sounded cool, and it was filmed as if there were to be commercials, but we learned a few things: it's bigger than the Titanic--I didn't know that. It holds the record for most human beings transported by water ever in the history of the world:16,005, when it was repainted and moving would-be soldiers for WWII. Even the history of the name of the ship was a neat anecdote: the ship builders came to the King of England and told them they were going to christen and name it after the "most beloved queen in England's history". The king smiled and said, "Oh, Mary will be so happy," indicating his wife, who may not have been the choice they had in mind, but they couldn't very well change it at that point.
Now, the claim that it was bigger than the Titanic I had to look up. What they actually said was that they could put two Titanics inside of the Queen Mary, which is demonstrably false. That was the claim, and it was wrong, but the Queen Mary is bigger, er, was bigger. If you were in a helicopter, high in the air above a fully restored and resurrected Titanic and the Queen Mary side by side, after saying "Holy shit, those are the biggest fucking ships I've ever seen," you'd be able to tell that the QM is bigger.
Well, dang. Occasionally when I walk down to the coffee shop I've been going to to work on the notes for my novel, down Linden Street I can see giant vessels, cruise ships of the largest sort, making a striking silhouette off in the distant waters. They seem so massive, like they'd dwarf the Queen Mary, and hence the Titanic, so what's up with them?
Well, after doing a little research, the largest class of Carnival cruise vessels are called Oasis Class, and whether or not these are the ships I see occasionally at the end of the street on Linden remains to be seen, but at this point I'd like to think they are. Whatever the case may be, it doesn't matter.
On Friday, while I was making my walk down to the coffee shop to have a good day of notes--I was really get someplace good--I told myself, for a laugh, that the next time I made the turn and looked down the street and saw one of those ships, I turn around and get my bike and camera, and go take some pictures of it.
I smiled to myself at the thought. Then, as I made the turn, of course one of the ships should be there.
Dammit, I thought, I really need to get these notes down...another ship will be there another time. I made it to the coffee house and started working. Or trying to work.
I started to get distracted. It was early enough, right? I should be able to bike over to get the shots I wanted for a post, right? And be able to get back to the novel notes without wasting any part of the day. Half-hour at most.
By now I was totally distracted, and needed to just go get my camera and get some pictures. So, I would need a few shots from up the street, and a few closer up, just to let people understand how friggin' huge these things are.
This is what it looks like from Linden:
Linden has a steep down-hill section and dead ends into the tiny Seaside Way, a road used during the Grand Prix, but rarely otherwise. Then there's a large parking lot for the Long Beach Arena. This ship could be anywhere from a half-mile to a mile away from where I'm taking this picture, and you can see that it has a water slide.
The close up pictures would be in just a few minutes, as I rode on over that side of Shoreline Blvd.
One that Corrie and I came across was a twenty-two minute show about the history of the Queen Mary--the ship that's permanently moored here in Long Beach. That sounded cool, and it was filmed as if there were to be commercials, but we learned a few things: it's bigger than the Titanic--I didn't know that. It holds the record for most human beings transported by water ever in the history of the world:16,005, when it was repainted and moving would-be soldiers for WWII. Even the history of the name of the ship was a neat anecdote: the ship builders came to the King of England and told them they were going to christen and name it after the "most beloved queen in England's history". The king smiled and said, "Oh, Mary will be so happy," indicating his wife, who may not have been the choice they had in mind, but they couldn't very well change it at that point.
Now, the claim that it was bigger than the Titanic I had to look up. What they actually said was that they could put two Titanics inside of the Queen Mary, which is demonstrably false. That was the claim, and it was wrong, but the Queen Mary is bigger, er, was bigger. If you were in a helicopter, high in the air above a fully restored and resurrected Titanic and the Queen Mary side by side, after saying "Holy shit, those are the biggest fucking ships I've ever seen," you'd be able to tell that the QM is bigger.
Well, dang. Occasionally when I walk down to the coffee shop I've been going to to work on the notes for my novel, down Linden Street I can see giant vessels, cruise ships of the largest sort, making a striking silhouette off in the distant waters. They seem so massive, like they'd dwarf the Queen Mary, and hence the Titanic, so what's up with them?
Well, after doing a little research, the largest class of Carnival cruise vessels are called Oasis Class, and whether or not these are the ships I see occasionally at the end of the street on Linden remains to be seen, but at this point I'd like to think they are. Whatever the case may be, it doesn't matter.
On Friday, while I was making my walk down to the coffee shop to have a good day of notes--I was really get someplace good--I told myself, for a laugh, that the next time I made the turn and looked down the street and saw one of those ships, I turn around and get my bike and camera, and go take some pictures of it.
I smiled to myself at the thought. Then, as I made the turn, of course one of the ships should be there.
Dammit, I thought, I really need to get these notes down...another ship will be there another time. I made it to the coffee house and started working. Or trying to work.
I started to get distracted. It was early enough, right? I should be able to bike over to get the shots I wanted for a post, right? And be able to get back to the novel notes without wasting any part of the day. Half-hour at most.
By now I was totally distracted, and needed to just go get my camera and get some pictures. So, I would need a few shots from up the street, and a few closer up, just to let people understand how friggin' huge these things are.
This is what it looks like from Linden:
Linden has a steep down-hill section and dead ends into the tiny Seaside Way, a road used during the Grand Prix, but rarely otherwise. Then there's a large parking lot for the Long Beach Arena. This ship could be anywhere from a half-mile to a mile away from where I'm taking this picture, and you can see that it has a water slide.
The close up pictures would be in just a few minutes, as I rode on over that side of Shoreline Blvd.
So...I Broke My Leg
They were calling it a distal femur fracture, or "distal femur fx" as it was written on the scant shards of paperwork that I got to see.
I was getting ready to head out to my little sequestered camp site to knock out the first draft of the novel I'm working on. Things were going swimmingly. A conversation after a little video seen on our special DVD player had me thinking, and then had me distracted and acting.
And then I learned I'm part Viking.
But all that will be made clear in the next series of posts. Like my unfinished Wednesday in Los Angeles project I had designs on this maybe being something more, something mixing humor and wide eyed nerves with veteran head knowledge and pain tolerance.
So...here's a picture, showing how the leg ended up looking in a CT Scan picture:
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The top bone, coming down from out of the frame, shouldn't have a broken piece floating in its vicinity. The five days covered from Friday, when it happened, and Tuesday, when I made it home will be covered in the following posts, and you'll get an idea of how the first few minutes after transpired, why I was in that particular space, how I made it home, then the hospital, learning about it, and the surgery itself. It's been a fast five days.
And I'm all about recovery, baby!
I was getting ready to head out to my little sequestered camp site to knock out the first draft of the novel I'm working on. Things were going swimmingly. A conversation after a little video seen on our special DVD player had me thinking, and then had me distracted and acting.
And then I learned I'm part Viking.
But all that will be made clear in the next series of posts. Like my unfinished Wednesday in Los Angeles project I had designs on this maybe being something more, something mixing humor and wide eyed nerves with veteran head knowledge and pain tolerance.
So...here's a picture, showing how the leg ended up looking in a CT Scan picture:
The top bone, coming down from out of the frame, shouldn't have a broken piece floating in its vicinity. The five days covered from Friday, when it happened, and Tuesday, when I made it home will be covered in the following posts, and you'll get an idea of how the first few minutes after transpired, why I was in that particular space, how I made it home, then the hospital, learning about it, and the surgery itself. It's been a fast five days.
And I'm all about recovery, baby!
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Wedding Aside: More Natural Art
While up north for my brother's wedding, I had a pair of opportunities to do some art projects, natural art projects, very much in the recent Shire at Long Beach vein.
The first I call "Vivisection in Fruitless Mulberry":
The next are a trio of self supported rock sculptures, balanced river cobbles:
Now, almost invisible, all three are visible below, along with Norm catching a drink of water:
Eh, maybe "Vivisection in Fruitless Mulberry" isn't a good name...
The first I call "Vivisection in Fruitless Mulberry":
The next are a trio of self supported rock sculptures, balanced river cobbles:
Now, almost invisible, all three are visible below, along with Norm catching a drink of water:
Eh, maybe "Vivisection in Fruitless Mulberry" isn't a good name...
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Our World Trade Center
The largest building in our skyline here in Long Beach is seen up close below. I finally went over to find out what you could call it, if you were so inclined.
You might be able to guess, by the title of the post, it's simply a World Trade Center. There's another plaza in town that has that name, or collection of buildings, but I think it's almost fitting...
...This is the first building you see when you're on a bicycle riding along the LA River back to Long Beach. It's the biggest and one of the more recognizable parts of our vista and it's a World Trade Center.
Here's the first glimpse that you're getting close to Long Beach, the dark tower right of center, the first sign Long Beach still exists.
(And I was tired of that beard picture still leading on the site.)
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Beard Studies, Part 2
I know I was planning to leave my beard mostly untouched until my brother's wedding, but I couldn't resist. Here's a picture from the "ax murderer" collection:
It also looks like I should be tutoring youngsters Russian. This is the least menacing picture from that whole folder; the rest...yeesh.
It was about here that I started trimming the sides while leaving the chin/goatee part nice and full. I do have a picture from that time, but I'll wait until it shows up in a post about the wedding shenanigans. It was hard to take myself seriously at that point.
I was in a conversation with Dan and Lupita before going to bed early that evening--I was getting u0p early the next day to go on the fishing/hiking trip with Norm--and I excused myself for a moment. I went into the bathroom and shaved the whole red woolen thing off. It took a few minutes, and they thought I'd left to make a deposit in the Banco de Toilette.
Nope, just happily shearing the growth from my face. Awesome...
It also looks like I should be tutoring youngsters Russian. This is the least menacing picture from that whole folder; the rest...yeesh.
It was about here that I started trimming the sides while leaving the chin/goatee part nice and full. I do have a picture from that time, but I'll wait until it shows up in a post about the wedding shenanigans. It was hard to take myself seriously at that point.
I was in a conversation with Dan and Lupita before going to bed early that evening--I was getting u0p early the next day to go on the fishing/hiking trip with Norm--and I excused myself for a moment. I went into the bathroom and shaved the whole red woolen thing off. It took a few minutes, and they thought I'd left to make a deposit in the Banco de Toilette.
Nope, just happily shearing the growth from my face. Awesome...
(With my eyes shut, talking to Chris)
Finally Figured It Out...
I've pretty much figured out how I want to proceed with my brother's wedding posts, but am chosing to start a bit later in the day, since Corrie and I are heading to Carlsbad this evening to see her cousin Josh, the gentleman we lived with in Upstate for six weeks while we looked for a place and work in the City. Its always fun chilling with Josh.
Also...a game...
Who Am I?
This is one of those, "Unhhh huhhhhhs" you see occasionally.
Also...a game...
Who Am I?
This is one of those, "Unhhh huhhhhhs" you see occasionally.
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