help, hell, hope, hospital
No news flash here: sometimes things happen to you that will completely suck. It doesn't matter whether "it could have been worse" or "you have to admit that you set yourself up for it." When these things happen, they bring with them buckets of pain, perhaps regret, frustration, anger...
One of these things happened to me lately. Again, it's not about whether or not other people are suffering worse things, or how lucky I am that my injuries weren't more severe. It's about the pain and loss that I've experienced. Enough about that, this whole post has been a digression so far; let's get back on topic.
On October 23rd I was in a motorcycle accident. Though the speeds were moderate, the injury was quite severe, but fortunately it was localized to my lower right leg, as shown here.
I had a green arrow and was turning left from one surface street to another. The guy in the car was exiting a one-way parking lot the wrong way and needed to cross my path, but he didn't see me. He ended up hitting me directly on my right side. I remember seeing him pull out and thinking "This can't happen, this can't happen." And then immediately before the impact my mind flashed "oh, shit, this is happening... but it won't be that bad, it won't be that bad." The impact itself wasn't too memorable for the pain - thinking about it mostly makes me sad for some reason. It was jarring and surreal, a bit of an out of body experience.
I remember flipping through the air; I did a nearly-complete forward flip and I landed on the street with my feet pointing in the direction in which I was originally heading. For a few seconds I couldn't do anything but breathe in and yell/scream "Aaaaah!!" as I exhaled. I knew there was horrible pain, but it took an extra couple of seconds for me to realize that it was concentrated in my right leg. At that point, I actually was able to remove my own helmet (I know, this is counter to all spine-protective advice, but it seemed to be obstructing my heavy breathing).
Fortunately, the traffic around me stopped and some bystanders called for an ambulance. The guy who hit me asked, "Are you alright?" I guess that was just wishful thinking on his part. I have to admit, though, I'm glad he stuck around and he seemed sincerely shooken up. Still, I think I'll always consider him an , even though he only made a small, simple mistake (albeit with large consequences).
Skipping some detail: I was eventually brought to the hospital - though I really had no idea of where exactly I was other than "in the hospital" - and I had several doctors and nurses doing this and that around me. They let me use my cell phone for a bit, and I called the friends I had just been hanging out with to tell them I was in an accident and ask for some moral support. They came and brought the cavalry with them. So now I had all these friends at my bedside, which was great. I set all this up because it's around this time that one of the doctors said they were going to "reduce" my fracture. That means they are going to move the bones back into their approximately correct positions. I knew this was coming; as things were, I could feel my bone pieces scraping against each other when I shifted my leg even slightly. I could turn my knee without having my foot follow the rotation. My tibia had two fractures: one below the knee and one above the ankle, resulting in a large piece of it "floating" in the middle of my leg. My fibula had one complete fracture, thus completing the disconnect between knee and ankle/foot.
As they were preparing for the reduction, I asked all but one of my friends to leave. I didn't want them to be disturbed by the intense pain I might show. There's not really any way to dramatize it appropriately: it was the worst pain I have ever felt and maybe the worst pain I will ever feel. It stiffened my whole body, squeezed tears from my eyes, and had me grating "oh God, oh God" from a constricted throat. My one friend who had stayed for the procedure had to be led away by a nurse because he felt faint.
When they finally finished, I felt as though I'd accomplished something. My leg was stabilized and tightly wrapped, thus minimizing pain if I shifted or moved. And it was for this reason that I was truly rarin' to go for the first surgery. I knew they would be putting in Titanium hardware and that it would then be permanently stabilized. That attitude really seemed to push out the fear and anxiety that is normally accompanied by preparations for surgery. While that first surgery did indeed stabilize my leg (my foot is now connected to my knee), I wasn't aware of the amount of pain and recovery that would be associated with the fasciotomy and the wound-vac that went on top of it. Of course, I vastly prefer that over the alternative: amputation.
When I think back now, one month later, on all of the different things I had to go through, I am brought at times to tears and at other times I shake my head in wonder at my strength in the moment. Two examples come to mind: first, right after the accident while I was lying on the ground, with the paramedics poking and prodding me, putting on a stabilizing neck collar, sliding me onto the back-board, and getting me into the ambulance. At face value that doesn't sound like much, but remember that during this time my body is in an incredible amount of pain, I'm going into shock - shaking uncontrollably - I don't know how bad anything is (nor do any of the police or EMS personnel surrounding me), and I can't move around so I can't see where I am or where anybody or anything is around me or what's happening. It was like being tortured while playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey
Another example is the prep for my second surgery in the hospital (I required two surgeries - the first to put in Titanium hardware, set my 3 leg fractures, and perform the fasciotomy; the second to perform a skin graft and close up the fasciotomy). The first I was excited about, as I've already mentioned. When it was time for the second surgery, I was already in a mood of having put up with quite a bit. I was leery of more pain, more IVs (for the first week I was basically tethered to 3 different machines at a time), and more things to watch out for and keep clean. I had been tired, frustrated, weak, hurting, and anxious for a week, and now I was really facing all of those standard pre-surgery emotions: the helpless fidgeting, the wanting to get it over with but still not wanting it to start... I'm surprised that I handled it with such grace; I'm surprised that the straws that kept piling up did not break my back.
So what's my point? Taking these observations into account, I can say that the hospital has several faces: that of help, that of hell, and that of hope.
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