OOPS – Part III

Continued from last week

Larry loaded the luggage in the back of the van and then helped our guests get seated. Of course, they were quite concerned about me, but I was more concerned about getting them to the wharf in time for their whale watching trip.

On our way to the house, we drove through the harbor. Larry pointed out where they would need to park and where they would get on the boat. Then we took the back road up the hill to show them the best sight of the marina. Unfortunately, there was a lot of fog—not the best view.

While we drove home, Larry made sure they knew how to get back down to the harbor.

Once our guests were settled in their rooms, we gave David the keys to another car so he could get them to their boat. As we prepared to leave, David said they would like to take us to dinner and asked if we had a favorite restaurant.

I didn’t hesitate. “Harbor Grill in the harbor. It has been number one in the Best of Dana Point ratings every year since we have lived here. All the locals love it.” It was my choice for our “last meal” every time we came home on leave from Japan. It would be our final taste of American food before we came back. And it remains my favorite for celebrations.

Then we left for the Urgent Care facility up the hill.

After the usual long wait while we answered their myriad of questions, I finally got to see the doctor. By this time, I was in extreme pain.

“I see you hit your head. You need a CatScan. We don’t have the equipment here. You’ll have to go to the Emergency Room.”

So, I hobbled back to the van, and Larry buckled me in. Then we drove to Mission Hospital. Larry pulled up at the emergency entrance and helped me out of the van. He located a wheelchair and took me inside. The admitting nurse took over while he parked.

Then followed the same questions we had already answered, plus more. Larry had to fill out all the paperwork since my right hand was compromised and non-functional.

I moved to a chair in the waiting room. After sitting there for a few minutes, I began to feel nauseated. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

The nurse brought a vomit bag. I had dry heaves—probably because I hadn’t eaten anything except for a nonfat, decaf mocha with no whip since the previous afternoon. And I think the pain finally got to me.

There were no beds available. “There is one in the hall.”

“I just need to lie down.” I was sure I was going to pass out, and Larry said my nose looked gray—his sign that I’m about to faint.

They helped me into a wheelchair and took me to the hall bed. Once I lay down, I started to feel better.

The doctor on duty arrived with my chart. “We’ll get a CatScan and take x-rays.”

Soon a volunteer, Phil, arrived to take me to x-ray. The hall bed became my gurney. The CatScan wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. In fact, I closed my eyes and enjoyed just being horizontal and still for a couple of minutes.

No so with the x-rays of my hand, and they took about five from different angles. They hurt. The ankle ones weren’t much better.

I was worn out by the time we got back to the hall.

While I was gone, Larry called the restaurant. “I have reservations for six-thirty.”

“You made them for six people, didn’t you? I don’t intend to miss out on this.”

We both laughed. We had guests, and I was determined nothing would keep me from enjoying their company. (Yes, I am a social animal!)

We waited. And waited. The head ER doctor came by and introduced himself.

Finally, the first doctor returned. “There is no concussion, and everything looks good on the CatScan.”

Thank God!

“Also, your ankle is sprained. It’s a bad sprain, but nothing is broken.”

Thank God!

“Your wrist is broken.”

I knew this from the minute I first looked at it in San Diego. No surprise there.

By now, my hand was swollen to about four times its normal size. The thumb looked like an uncooked sausage with a nail attached. And the nail had a piece ripped from it. All the rest of my fingernails were ripped and torn—and I’d actually given myself a manicure the night before. Darn.

I still had my green sapphire ring on my finger, and there was obviously no way it would come off over the knuckle.

A strong-looking young man arrived with a large cutting tool. “We’ll have to cut off the ring.”

Oh, no.

It took three cuts to get it off. He had a hard time getting the tool between the ring and my finger. This was the most painful part of the whole experience. I confess, I screamed.

“I know it hurts, but it’s better than losing your finger.” The young man showed no sympathy, but he was right.

I waited over a week before I could look at it

The doctor appeared again. “Here’s a pain pill.”

Really? You couldn’t have brought this earlier?

Although I knew this was an opioid, and I was really reluctant to take them, I was in so much pain—and had been for hours—I didn’t argue. By now, it was about two in the afternoon—over five and a half hours since my fall.

She started to give me a second pill.

“No, please. I don’t want to take any more than necessary.”

She laughed. “This is an anti-nausea pill. Just let it dissolve under your tongue.”

“Oh. Good idea.”

I can now understand how people become addicted to the magic pills. Within about ten minutes, the pain diminished considerably. And I was without any drowsiness or mental confusion. Wow!

Next, a couple of nurses addressed my ankle. “We’ll put it in a boot.” They found the smallest one they could. They positioned my foot in the bottom and then connected all the various straps. It seemed as though there were a dozen. Some looped through and closed with Velcro. Others looped around the boot and then closed. I was lying down, but the nurse showed Larry how to put it on.

"Well get you some crutches."

I held up my swolen hand. "Really?"

"Uh, I guess not."

You think? DUH!

Then they addressed my wrist. First, they cut the sleeve of my shirt from wrist to shoulder.

Then they measured from the back of my wrist, around the elbow, and down to the front of my wrist. Next, they measured out the splint material, ran it under water, and wrapped it around my arm in the same manner as they measured. (This is called a “sugar tong” splint, in case you are interested.)

One of them pressed the splint against my arm for a good fit. Then they wrapped it from top to bottom in what looked like an ace bandage. Then another. Then another…

The result was large, messy, heavy, and cumbersome. They gave me a sling. More about it later.

Three days later

They loaded me into a wheelchair, and Larry brought the car around. I was glad to get out of there and back home.

To be continued.