tibial tribulations
this one's gonna be a bit of a longy, so I'm gonna divide it into lj cut sections, like chapter and verse.
It's basically the story of how I broke my leg, and the ordeal I had to go through to fix it, and some stuff I learned along the way.
I feel it lends some credence to the old addage: what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger.
Names have been mangled to protect the miscreants - most of you will know who they are anyways.
To set the scene, it was a fine Thursday night, and most of the people at work are looking forward to a planned event, a company karaoke night, affectionately referred to as 'Pivotal Idol'.
As quitting time rolled around, the employees began to gust and eddy over to McLean's pub on Peel street.
The beers began to flow, some cigarettes were had, the tensions of the day began to fade away in the warm pleasantries of a Montreal summer night.
Soon enough, people began to sing... some were quite good, most were not terrible, and we were all having a grand old time. I got together with two beatboxer's and a Lo Jang and we busted an acapella 'Mama Said Knock You Out!' which was good enough to win the company Karaoke competition :D
As the night wound down, myself, Lo Jang and Captain Nemo decided to have a little impromptu foot-race through the streets. I was pulling ahead, and got a quick hip-check from Captain Nemo which knocked me to the curb. Maybe it was the way I was running, or the fact that I was a bit tipsy, but I tripped and hit the sidewalk fairly hard.
"Ow" I said. "I can't seem to get up."
"You must have sprained it..."
"Let's get you up and grab a taxi. We'll help you up to your apt."
"Alright, let's go."
Lo Jang and Captain Nemo helped me in and out of the Taxi, and helped me walk up the four flights of stairs top my top floor apt. They headed off, and as I had no ice available to me, I ran some cool water from the tap in my bathtub over my leg, dried myself off, and headed to bed, thinking that my leg would be fine in the morning.
I drifted off to dreamland, and when I awoke, I tried to move my leg, and experienced some exquisite pain.
My leg felt distinctly croggled. I hobbled over to the bathroom, bearing weight on the leg (the left one, the croggled one) here and there, proceeded to do my business, then sitting on the chair in front of my computer. I was unable to get back up for some time.
First, I contacted work, and told them that although I wanted to come in, my leg had other ideas. They suggested that I contact a clinic or get myself to some type of hospital. This was quite obvious now that I think about it, but at the time I was debating whether or not this was necessary.
I contacted the JAM, and he told me to get my ass to a clinic or something on no uncertain terms. He asked if he should take some time off work and head over, then said that if he didn't hear from me in the next ten minutes, he'd be on his way.
I realized that since I could not really walk (I had been scooting around on a wooden chair up to this point, using my good leg for propulsion and watching the bad leg slowly swell and blaze w/ pain) I really only had one choice. At 10:07 am Friday morning, I dialed 911 and called the Ambulance.
I prepared a bag of books, cards, money and other things I would need in an extended stay, and called a neighbour, my brother T-Moneybags to keep me company while I waited for the EMT's.
As I was able to breathe, and had no immediate difficulties other than what felt to me to be a severely sprained and unusable leg, I was informed that the EMT's would not be engaging their sirens, and that they would not be in a huge hurry.
I also mentioned that I could not walk, and that there were 4 flights of stairs between me and the ground. The operator told me not to worry, that they would bring some kind of a wheelchair.
After keeping me company for some hours and providing some much needed emotional support, T-Moneybags headed off to work.
And so I waited, and waited. I called 911 again, Urgance Sante called me back, and told me to wait some more.
Around 1pm, three hours after I called, the paramedics arrived.
They checked me out, wrapped my leg in an ace bandage, and asked if I could walk. I said no. After some cajoling, one of them handed me a stick, and I hobbled down 4 flights of stairs on one foot and one broken leg while the EMT's walked slowly in front and behind me.
It took a lot of effort and patience to get down those stairs. When I got to the bottom, I got onto a stretcher, which the EMT's then subsequently loaded into the Ambulance, and about 15 minutes later, I arrived at the Royal Victoria Emergency Triage.
The Triage Nurse checked my vitals, had a look at my leg, and asked my some questions of a medical nature - allergies, etc. I was processed, tagged, and then sent up the line.
An orderly brought me to Minor Injury Care, where I was placed in an alcove in a hallway on my stretcher. I was given a gown, and stuffed my shirt under a pillow.
The man in the alcove a bit further up had obviously been here for a while longer, for he was no longer seemed concerned about such mundane things as pants, or who and whomever could see his genitals as he lay in his bed scratching himself or having a tea.
Eventually, a doctor got to me.
He then sent me off with an orderly to the x-ray area of the royal vic, where I was swiftly irradiated. There's a centralized system at the Hospital now, so they don't actually have to print anything out. The x-ray went into memory and was then available to anyone with a connected terminal.
Shortly after, I was wheeled back to the minor care section. There was a code white (violent patient), and a half naked obviously sick woman came barging through our section yelling up a storm and shaking her fist menacingly at the staff as she tromped along. Orderlies and staff followed in her wake, and I tried to catch some z's.
The doctor told me that my x-rays indicated that further study was necessary, and that there may or may not be a fracture. He wanted to pierce the knee and drain the fluids swelling it up, but held off after he saw the x-rays.
So I was sent to get a C-T Scan. The C-T Scan device is like a thing straight out of Star-Trek. It's a big plastic eye shaped thing, with numbers flashing right on top of the iris, and the iris, a big hole through which you are jigged in and out. Reminded me a bit of a sort of mini-stargate.
It did its thing. I was then placed back on my stretcher, and waited outside the C-T scan room. The orderly eventually came back and wheeled me back to the minor care center. Some time later, the doc came and told me that he had taken a look at my C-T, was unsure how to proceed, and had contacted the orthopedic department at the Montreal General. They had responded with a "Send him over immediately".
So, it was time to be transported to the General.
They sent an orderly, who asked me if I was able to take a taxi. I shook my head. He said that an ambulance would take a lot more time, but that there was a third option. The medicar. The medicar is sort of like a hospital bus, and is equipped with a winch like device that can be used to lift people in wheelchairs up off the ground into the bus, where they are chained down.
So, they put me in a wheelchair, in which I held my leg up with my hands. The winched me into the bus, and the driver chained me down. He was very nice, and warned me when there were bumps and pits in the road. All the same I winced as waves of pain flowed through me and my conscienceness threatened to take its leave, a long with my lunch.
However, I made it, in once piece, to the general. I was wheeled up to the Triage nurse in the Acute Care section of the Emergency ward. A nice nurse took my vitals, while the driver of the Medicar waited patiently nearby. Then they helped me onto a Stretcher and wheeled me down to an alcove by the emergency ward. I could barely see the TV from my angle.
I was told that I may or may not need surgery, and that orthopedics might be able to get to me soon. It was now around six o'clock, friday night.
I waited, but the emergency list was full, and I was not even on it at this stage. I tried to catch some winks, but it's pretty hard, lying in a hallway on a stretcher. Especially when they figure its time to check the functionality of the fire alarms.
Day rolled into night. I mangaged to bribe an orderly to get me a sprite, and nursed it like the sweet treasure that it was. Night rolled into day.
With morning came an orderly, who brought me into the far section of the emergency ward. A surgeon checked me out, and told me I needed surgery. I misunderstood.
"Oh, I'm so glad I don't need surgery!"
"No... you *definately* need surgery."
"Ack."
I was fitted with a temporary cast, and told that I could not eat anything as I could expect to go into surgery soon. It was now around saturday, mid morning.
As I lay there, feeling a bit low, who should show up but the Lo Jang! Bringing me the gift of a sandwich, a coke, and some company. He then offered to go back to my apartment and get any stuff I might want. This was pure awesome, and I had him head back and bring the bag which I had prepared, the one with books and stuff to keep my brain occupied while I waited.
While he was gone getting the stuff, I was moved to a proper ward. There were a few nurses in this ward, as well as some very very sick looking fellows. But now I had access to a phone.
I told a nurse that I had a Lo Jang that would be looking for me where I was, and would he be able to find me, she said I had nothing to worry about, that all he had to do was ask at the front desk where I was and the rest would follow.
Sure enough, some time later, the Lo Jang reappeared with goodies from my place, some science fiction novels and a magical theory book (like, prestidigitation).
He then said that my mom had tried to contact me, and I remembered that I was supposed to hang out with her today, this being the Saturday. Ack, how time flies (crawls through molasses) when you're having fun (waiting with a broken corpse amidst the dead and dying). I did not want to contact her, because I did not want to cause her any undue worry. But I guess it was too late for that. So, with the help of the Lo Jang, I got myself a phone and called her, and told her I was at the montreal general. Just as I feared, she dropped everything and headed right over.
The Lo Jang hung around for a while, then headed back to the vibrancy of life away from the dessicated crawling of a busy hospital, and I waited in the ward, as the nurses came and checked my vitals, and dealt with the various concerns of the other patients. The old woman that didn't quite know where she was was fairly heartbreaking. The old man that had had a brain embolism and was acting in a very strange manner was also quite depressing.
My Mom arrived in short order, and after admonishing me for keeping my pleasant jaunt from her, she sat with me for a while kept me company. She asked many questions of the nurses to ascertain my condition, and generally helped out.
Then the technician in charge came by and told me that he had managed to procure a room for me in the SSU (Short-Stay-Unit). Apparently this section was much more comfortable than the 10 man ward that I was currently in.
An orderly came to roll the stretcher and off we went to the SSU for what we hoped would in fact be a short stay. It was not to be, however.
I lay in a bed in the SSU N.P.O'd (that is, Nil Per Os or latin for nothing past the mouth) for a total of 7 full days.
Each morning I was told that I was either on the list or I wasn't. Each day that I was not on the list, I was guaranteed a full day of waiting but I could eat.
Each day that I was on the list, I was not allowed to eat all day, until around 8, when I was told that I was bumped from the list by other emergencies, and that maybe they would see me tomorrow.
In this time, the JAM and the Gweedo came to visit, as did my mother and my brother. My brother would come every morning and bring me the newspaper, and try to get a hold of the head physician, I guess so that he could give him/her a firm talking too. Alas this was not to be. Probably for the best.
My Aunts in Toronto and London respectively called nearly every day, and my sister called from Australia almost every night.
In all this time, I had not had a single cigarette, so one good thing I guess, I have involuntarily quit smoking.
While I waited in this four person ward, various people came in and out, occupying the available beds. When I arrived, there was a girl sobbing in the far bed to her mother. "it's not fair, why is this happening to me". The tears flowed, it was fairly heartbreaking, although some time later I got the distinct impression that her tears were of the crocodillian variety. My mom referred to her as the daredevil, as she seemed to have no fear of her actions.
She was uncomfortable at one point, and ripped the I.V. right out of her arm and went for a cigarette, much to the consternation of the staff.
The daredevil was a diabetic, and complained of stomach problems/pain. She was on heavy painkillers, and her suger levels were about 6 times as high as normal at one point - so she was not faking, thats for sure. At least the pain and the shakes, maybe not the tears.
Next to me was a Haitian fellow, who in spite of being on very heavy duty pain-killers of varying flavours, still managed to be fastidiously clean, brushing his teeth (in much pain) after every meal, and every morning carefully washing up as best he could. He wasn't very talkative, but demonstrated the ability to communicate in several languages, fluently. And when he did speak, he was nothing if not polite.
Next to the daredevil was an old woman who had had some trouble at her retirement home. A heavy smoker, she was unable to muster enough strength to stand up, and complained that her retirement home overseer's abused her and her friends. Her sister confirmed this, and when she had complained of pain, she was told to 'shut up and go lie down'. The social workers at the hospital began to take her case, to help her out.
This lady was the same age as my mother, but the difference in health was quite striking. I wonder if it just had to do with the cigarette habit? Probably a million other considerations as well.
The daredevil began doing better , and was sent home. Meanwhile, my vitals were taken at a steady pace, and looked pretty good (actually, my blood pressure, temperature, heart rate and oxygen saturation were pretty much perfect the entire time that I was there... part of the reason why I waited so long to be seen I guess. This is probably due to the lack of smoking - at that point I had not smoked in 6 days when the nurses asked how I was doing, I answered "aside from the broken leg I'm as fit as a horse! Wanna dance? :D")
I like nurses, they are nice. :D
Anyways, I digress...
The replacement for daredevil was a ms. laflanne, who was brought in in hysterics. She had ahad a procedure where her stomach was removed (what?! ya, really...) and for six months, she had had nothing to eat but a glass of milk. Anything else burned her. She was in a fairly sad state, and demanded to use the phone so that she could call her husband. "Jai peur" she said, and asked the man to come quick. He came and stayed with her, and she calmed down significantly. I guess that's love right there.
Then the elderly smoker was sent home, and replaced by an old babushka, who was very kind. She had some kind of bladder infection, and was worried that her treatment would interfere with her sixtieth wedding anniversary that was upcoming. Her husband arrived shortly after. They asked me to guess his age, the man was 94 years old. He had been on pension since 1976 - one year before I was born. And he took the bus to get there, and offered to help me more than once when I was trying to roll over to the bathroom on one crutch and I.V. stand, using my patented hop-slide technique.
Ms. Laflanne was wheeled off to parts unknown, and was replaced by Mr. Vivenko, who is perhaps the bravest human I have had the pleasure of meeting. He had a month to live, due to cancer eating his body, and was in palliative care. He had a cough, and they were trying to alleviate it with some oxygen and other treatments. All the time he joked with everyone. One of the nurses was a bit thoughtless and rude to him, and his (pretty) daughter lost it, saying " you should not fight with my father". Mr. Vivenko, elder statesman that he was, smoothed over the concerns and made both people feel better. When He was heading back to Mount Sinai (to expire) he raised his fist at me and wished me good luck and gave me a big smile. I smiled back and wished him well, but I thought to myself "How..." :(
On Friday, they said definitely today. Friday night, they said, sorry - the list is full.
Saturday morning, my mom came by and was sitting with me when we heard the flop-flop of running hospital feets, and a nurse came in and said - orthopedics called, they're coming for you. My mom cheered, as did the nurse, as did I.
An orderly came in, transfered me and my broken leg over to a stretcher, and off we went, pass the doors marked 'operating room'. I told my mom to go home and relax... but of course she waited anxiously for news.
Past the O.R. doors, I was greeted by a tall thin german woman, who began explaining my options for anesthesia.
My options were general (knock out) or local (lucid but unfeeling). I asked about the associated risks, how the various options impacted recovery, and decided to go with the local. This was known as spinal anesthesia.
I sat on a cold metal table, curling my back and trying to protrude my spine as I was advised. I was then nailed between lower vertabrae by a needle within a needle (apparently one is needed to puncture the skin, the internal needed to slip between the vertabrae), and the drug diffused throughout my lower body.
My legs began to feel like meaningless chunks of meat attached to me that may or may not have been someone elses.
Spinal Anesthesia is a very strange feeling (or lack thereof).
I was then stretchered to the O.R., placed on the operating table, and strapped down in an iron cross. They moved my croggled leg around (wince) and began discussing various things.
It sounded to me like things were going well. I could not really see what was going on because there was a big blue curtain between me and the operation, but I had no great desire to see my bones or any other internal parts.
The anesthetition asked me if I wanted something to make me sleep, but I was ok, so I just lay there, trying to be strong, focusing my energy, trying to stay calm, cool and collected.
The bone surgeons had a conversation about the picking up of french by new surgeons, it got a little heated, but the surgery went well. They took a metal based string of kevlar and I guess wrapped it around my tibia, pushed the protruding bone back to where it was supposed to be, and sewed it all up nice. All in all it took about an hour.
The surgeons told me that I had done well, and gave me some advice, They also mentioned that they could see I had had a weird growth spurt common among young tall lanky people around my knee but that it was nothing to worry about, and that my knee now would heal up nice.
They vacated, and I was carefully moved over to a stretcher, then rolled up to the post op unit, which basically was a room where outpatients lay, hooked up to various monitors, being, well, monitored.
Although one of the conditions of the surgery was I would have a post op room, there was some difficulty in finding one. But one was found, and one of the ubiquitous and overworked orderlies wheeled me up to 1237d, where I was to convalesce until I was able to go home. As far as the bone surgeons were concerned, I was discharged and ready to go home.
But then came the pain.
In 1237d, I was introduced to my nurse, ms K. There were some other occupants - similar to the SSU, this room had 4 beds in it. Opposite me was an elderly Indian fellow, from New Dehli, who was quite interesting. He had a pretty Indian princess daughter, and its quite frustrating to be around pretty girls when your hair has not been brushed or washed in 10 days and you're sporting a 15 o'clock shadow from lack of shaving, you've got track marks all over your arms and you're in incredible pain. Still, I got her to laugh, and she flashed me a pretty smile.
Her Father was quite an intersting character and regaled me with stories of his fishing trips and his trips around the world. We exchanged some stories and he mentioned that his first wife had been on that infamous Air India flight :(.
Diagonally across from me was a fellow that had the loudest draconian snores I have ever had the misfortune of hearing. Its a good thing we were not near the morgue because his snores would have woken the dead. But... that having been said he himself was a nice fellow, and had some pretty unfortunate circumstances.
It seems that as he was mopeding along, some guy blasted through a red light and into him. He flew onto the hood. The guy then got out of his car. He took the unconcious man off his hood and threw him in the street, and drove off, getting away clean. This seems utterly inhuman to me, like, thats fucking sickening. I cannot say how that makes me feel.
To my right is a girl that's paralyzed from the waist down. She's a big tough type girl, short hair and big arms. She's been in the orthopedics convalescent room for about a year, having surgery every now and then. I'm not sure what exactly happened to her, but she is not in good shape, and is not always treated with basic human dignity and decency.
Theres something strange in this place. In all the other parts of the hospital I have been in, if you press a panic button, the nurses are there in max a few minutes. But in this orthopedics area, they don't seem to care as much, at least some of the people don't.
The girl to my right was falling out of her bed, about to crack her head on the tiles, and hit the panic button. She was hanging on for dear life, slowly slipping, pressing the button and yelling for help. She had to rip the panic button out of the wall, before a patient attendant finally walked slowly over. He said 'I'll be right with you', and walked off for a bit.
Eventually he helped her.
The indian fellow opposite me asked for help at one point and hit the button. No one came for a good half an hour.
I needed pain medication every four hours after the surgery - because having surgery on your bones does not feel like roses smell and chocolate tastes. I was in tears at one point, and could not hold myself from making small noises of pain.
I'm no wimp when it comes to pain, I hobbled down four flights of stairs with a broken leg and a stick.
But I was losing it. And the thing was, no one was keeping track of my meds. I would press the button, and ask for 'something for the pain.' They would get back to me, most of the time too late. The night staff was totally on the ball, competent and helpful, but once I started keeping track of my meds, I realized that no one else was.
I would ring an hour before my meds were due and tell the patient attendant to locate the nurse and have my meds ready. It took them about an hour to do this, so I managed to enforce my med schedule through force of will.
One time my meds were due, right after the bad morning I had when the nurse was late by 2 hours with my painkillers and was told that my nurse, nurse K, was on break. She was on break - holy fucking shit fuckery.
I got another nurse to get me the meds, nurse k showed up 3 hours later and asked if I wanted the meds now. I wanted to ask here what the flying fuck she was doing there, but instead I smiled and told her no, thanks so much.
The physio therapist came by and made me get up out of bed. It was really really tough, but I did it. Soon after I was walking around on crutches, and feeling great.
In a nice gesture, the high priest of my erstwhile faith and his wife came to see me on the second night. They did not berate me for not coming to mosque for the past 15 years, just asked how I was, re-iterated a similar experience, and said a blessing for me. I was touched, and the very fact that he did not mention the fact that I had not been devout in a long time makes me think that maybe I should just pop in one time...
I was in the post op room for 2 days after the surgery, the worst days of the lot according to the surgeons who came to see me.
Another nurse came in and almost removed my cast to redress it. I asked her to make sure she knew that she had to do this because the surgeons had told me that this was in fact dangerous.
She said 'oh, and left me there, my cast off, my broken sutered up knee open to all to see and totally vulnerable with no support, and dissapeared for a good half hour while I lay there. The leg slowly began to bend, and I began to worry that all my suffering was for nought and that this foolish nurse had just undone the surgery. This was supposed to be my release date, if you could understand the frustration I was feeling as I lay there, well, it was rough.
I was alone in that room, cast open for some time when the physio therapist came in to train me in the secret art of stair-climbing with a broken leg and crutches, and saw me all vulnerable. I was very frustrated, and may have snapped at her a bit. I asked her to find my nurse.
Finally the nurse came back and said 'o ya, the doctor said we're not supposed to touch the cast until you come back for a follow up'. She smiled. I wanted to kill her.
Instead I smiled and said, hey thanks. I didn't even say "don't you think you should have checked that before you nearly fucked up my leg?", or "are you a fucking lunatic?", no, I just said, cheerfully "hey, thanks" and gave her a smile. She smiled back.
Then she gave me my follow up appointment, the big boss doc came to see me and spoke mostly to an underling, pointing at me as if I wasn't there. I said hi and asked him a couple of questions. He seemed surprised. But he answered them.
After a bit of stair climbing training I was pretty much free to go. I had called my mom and she was on her way. At around 3, she showed up, and I crutched my way out of there, loaded up in the car, and headed home.
In pain, constipated from pain killers (yay) and a little disoriented, I was finally free.
One night of sleep at home was the best sleep I had had in 10 days.
I desperately wanted a cigarette, but my brother had bought me a stop smoking book that I had used before to quit, and I knew it was effective, so I read that instead.
I feel about a hundred times better right now. Now I can think about life, and now I can heal.
The follow up is in a few days, after which I should be able to work.
They may be setting up a vpn for me, so maybe I can even start before that.
The leg should be as good as new inshallah in four to six weeks.
So, here I am at home, recovering slowly.
It's basically the story of how I broke my leg, and the ordeal I had to go through to fix it, and some stuff I learned along the way.
I feel it lends some credence to the old addage: what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger.
Names have been mangled to protect the miscreants - most of you will know who they are anyways.
To set the scene, it was a fine Thursday night, and most of the people at work are looking forward to a planned event, a company karaoke night, affectionately referred to as 'Pivotal Idol'.
As quitting time rolled around, the employees began to gust and eddy over to McLean's pub on Peel street.
The beers began to flow, some cigarettes were had, the tensions of the day began to fade away in the warm pleasantries of a Montreal summer night.
Soon enough, people began to sing... some were quite good, most were not terrible, and we were all having a grand old time. I got together with two beatboxer's and a Lo Jang and we busted an acapella 'Mama Said Knock You Out!' which was good enough to win the company Karaoke competition :D
As the night wound down, myself, Lo Jang and Captain Nemo decided to have a little impromptu foot-race through the streets. I was pulling ahead, and got a quick hip-check from Captain Nemo which knocked me to the curb. Maybe it was the way I was running, or the fact that I was a bit tipsy, but I tripped and hit the sidewalk fairly hard.
"Ow" I said. "I can't seem to get up."
"You must have sprained it..."
"Let's get you up and grab a taxi. We'll help you up to your apt."
"Alright, let's go."
Lo Jang and Captain Nemo helped me in and out of the Taxi, and helped me walk up the four flights of stairs top my top floor apt. They headed off, and as I had no ice available to me, I ran some cool water from the tap in my bathtub over my leg, dried myself off, and headed to bed, thinking that my leg would be fine in the morning.
I drifted off to dreamland, and when I awoke, I tried to move my leg, and experienced some exquisite pain.
My leg felt distinctly croggled. I hobbled over to the bathroom, bearing weight on the leg (the left one, the croggled one) here and there, proceeded to do my business, then sitting on the chair in front of my computer. I was unable to get back up for some time.
First, I contacted work, and told them that although I wanted to come in, my leg had other ideas. They suggested that I contact a clinic or get myself to some type of hospital. This was quite obvious now that I think about it, but at the time I was debating whether or not this was necessary.
I contacted the JAM, and he told me to get my ass to a clinic or something on no uncertain terms. He asked if he should take some time off work and head over, then said that if he didn't hear from me in the next ten minutes, he'd be on his way.
I realized that since I could not really walk (I had been scooting around on a wooden chair up to this point, using my good leg for propulsion and watching the bad leg slowly swell and blaze w/ pain) I really only had one choice. At 10:07 am Friday morning, I dialed 911 and called the Ambulance.
I prepared a bag of books, cards, money and other things I would need in an extended stay, and called a neighbour, my brother T-Moneybags to keep me company while I waited for the EMT's.
As I was able to breathe, and had no immediate difficulties other than what felt to me to be a severely sprained and unusable leg, I was informed that the EMT's would not be engaging their sirens, and that they would not be in a huge hurry.
I also mentioned that I could not walk, and that there were 4 flights of stairs between me and the ground. The operator told me not to worry, that they would bring some kind of a wheelchair.
After keeping me company for some hours and providing some much needed emotional support, T-Moneybags headed off to work.
And so I waited, and waited. I called 911 again, Urgance Sante called me back, and told me to wait some more.
Around 1pm, three hours after I called, the paramedics arrived.
They checked me out, wrapped my leg in an ace bandage, and asked if I could walk. I said no. After some cajoling, one of them handed me a stick, and I hobbled down 4 flights of stairs on one foot and one broken leg while the EMT's walked slowly in front and behind me.
It took a lot of effort and patience to get down those stairs. When I got to the bottom, I got onto a stretcher, which the EMT's then subsequently loaded into the Ambulance, and about 15 minutes later, I arrived at the Royal Victoria Emergency Triage.
The Triage Nurse checked my vitals, had a look at my leg, and asked my some questions of a medical nature - allergies, etc. I was processed, tagged, and then sent up the line.
An orderly brought me to Minor Injury Care, where I was placed in an alcove in a hallway on my stretcher. I was given a gown, and stuffed my shirt under a pillow.
The man in the alcove a bit further up had obviously been here for a while longer, for he was no longer seemed concerned about such mundane things as pants, or who and whomever could see his genitals as he lay in his bed scratching himself or having a tea.
Eventually, a doctor got to me.
He then sent me off with an orderly to the x-ray area of the royal vic, where I was swiftly irradiated. There's a centralized system at the Hospital now, so they don't actually have to print anything out. The x-ray went into memory and was then available to anyone with a connected terminal.
Shortly after, I was wheeled back to the minor care section. There was a code white (violent patient), and a half naked obviously sick woman came barging through our section yelling up a storm and shaking her fist menacingly at the staff as she tromped along. Orderlies and staff followed in her wake, and I tried to catch some z's.
The doctor told me that my x-rays indicated that further study was necessary, and that there may or may not be a fracture. He wanted to pierce the knee and drain the fluids swelling it up, but held off after he saw the x-rays.
So I was sent to get a C-T Scan. The C-T Scan device is like a thing straight out of Star-Trek. It's a big plastic eye shaped thing, with numbers flashing right on top of the iris, and the iris, a big hole through which you are jigged in and out. Reminded me a bit of a sort of mini-stargate.
It did its thing. I was then placed back on my stretcher, and waited outside the C-T scan room. The orderly eventually came back and wheeled me back to the minor care center. Some time later, the doc came and told me that he had taken a look at my C-T, was unsure how to proceed, and had contacted the orthopedic department at the Montreal General. They had responded with a "Send him over immediately".
So, it was time to be transported to the General.
They sent an orderly, who asked me if I was able to take a taxi. I shook my head. He said that an ambulance would take a lot more time, but that there was a third option. The medicar. The medicar is sort of like a hospital bus, and is equipped with a winch like device that can be used to lift people in wheelchairs up off the ground into the bus, where they are chained down.
So, they put me in a wheelchair, in which I held my leg up with my hands. The winched me into the bus, and the driver chained me down. He was very nice, and warned me when there were bumps and pits in the road. All the same I winced as waves of pain flowed through me and my conscienceness threatened to take its leave, a long with my lunch.
However, I made it, in once piece, to the general. I was wheeled up to the Triage nurse in the Acute Care section of the Emergency ward. A nice nurse took my vitals, while the driver of the Medicar waited patiently nearby. Then they helped me onto a Stretcher and wheeled me down to an alcove by the emergency ward. I could barely see the TV from my angle.
I was told that I may or may not need surgery, and that orthopedics might be able to get to me soon. It was now around six o'clock, friday night.
I waited, but the emergency list was full, and I was not even on it at this stage. I tried to catch some winks, but it's pretty hard, lying in a hallway on a stretcher. Especially when they figure its time to check the functionality of the fire alarms.
Day rolled into night. I mangaged to bribe an orderly to get me a sprite, and nursed it like the sweet treasure that it was. Night rolled into day.
With morning came an orderly, who brought me into the far section of the emergency ward. A surgeon checked me out, and told me I needed surgery. I misunderstood.
"Oh, I'm so glad I don't need surgery!"
"No... you *definately* need surgery."
"Ack."
I was fitted with a temporary cast, and told that I could not eat anything as I could expect to go into surgery soon. It was now around saturday, mid morning.
As I lay there, feeling a bit low, who should show up but the Lo Jang! Bringing me the gift of a sandwich, a coke, and some company. He then offered to go back to my apartment and get any stuff I might want. This was pure awesome, and I had him head back and bring the bag which I had prepared, the one with books and stuff to keep my brain occupied while I waited.
While he was gone getting the stuff, I was moved to a proper ward. There were a few nurses in this ward, as well as some very very sick looking fellows. But now I had access to a phone.
I told a nurse that I had a Lo Jang that would be looking for me where I was, and would he be able to find me, she said I had nothing to worry about, that all he had to do was ask at the front desk where I was and the rest would follow.
Sure enough, some time later, the Lo Jang reappeared with goodies from my place, some science fiction novels and a magical theory book (like, prestidigitation).
He then said that my mom had tried to contact me, and I remembered that I was supposed to hang out with her today, this being the Saturday. Ack, how time flies (crawls through molasses) when you're having fun (waiting with a broken corpse amidst the dead and dying). I did not want to contact her, because I did not want to cause her any undue worry. But I guess it was too late for that. So, with the help of the Lo Jang, I got myself a phone and called her, and told her I was at the montreal general. Just as I feared, she dropped everything and headed right over.
The Lo Jang hung around for a while, then headed back to the vibrancy of life away from the dessicated crawling of a busy hospital, and I waited in the ward, as the nurses came and checked my vitals, and dealt with the various concerns of the other patients. The old woman that didn't quite know where she was was fairly heartbreaking. The old man that had had a brain embolism and was acting in a very strange manner was also quite depressing.
My Mom arrived in short order, and after admonishing me for keeping my pleasant jaunt from her, she sat with me for a while kept me company. She asked many questions of the nurses to ascertain my condition, and generally helped out.
Then the technician in charge came by and told me that he had managed to procure a room for me in the SSU (Short-Stay-Unit). Apparently this section was much more comfortable than the 10 man ward that I was currently in.
An orderly came to roll the stretcher and off we went to the SSU for what we hoped would in fact be a short stay. It was not to be, however.
I lay in a bed in the SSU N.P.O'd (that is, Nil Per Os or latin for nothing past the mouth) for a total of 7 full days.
Each morning I was told that I was either on the list or I wasn't. Each day that I was not on the list, I was guaranteed a full day of waiting but I could eat.
Each day that I was on the list, I was not allowed to eat all day, until around 8, when I was told that I was bumped from the list by other emergencies, and that maybe they would see me tomorrow.
In this time, the JAM and the Gweedo came to visit, as did my mother and my brother. My brother would come every morning and bring me the newspaper, and try to get a hold of the head physician, I guess so that he could give him/her a firm talking too. Alas this was not to be. Probably for the best.
My Aunts in Toronto and London respectively called nearly every day, and my sister called from Australia almost every night.
In all this time, I had not had a single cigarette, so one good thing I guess, I have involuntarily quit smoking.
While I waited in this four person ward, various people came in and out, occupying the available beds. When I arrived, there was a girl sobbing in the far bed to her mother. "it's not fair, why is this happening to me". The tears flowed, it was fairly heartbreaking, although some time later I got the distinct impression that her tears were of the crocodillian variety. My mom referred to her as the daredevil, as she seemed to have no fear of her actions.
She was uncomfortable at one point, and ripped the I.V. right out of her arm and went for a cigarette, much to the consternation of the staff.
The daredevil was a diabetic, and complained of stomach problems/pain. She was on heavy painkillers, and her suger levels were about 6 times as high as normal at one point - so she was not faking, thats for sure. At least the pain and the shakes, maybe not the tears.
Next to me was a Haitian fellow, who in spite of being on very heavy duty pain-killers of varying flavours, still managed to be fastidiously clean, brushing his teeth (in much pain) after every meal, and every morning carefully washing up as best he could. He wasn't very talkative, but demonstrated the ability to communicate in several languages, fluently. And when he did speak, he was nothing if not polite.
Next to the daredevil was an old woman who had had some trouble at her retirement home. A heavy smoker, she was unable to muster enough strength to stand up, and complained that her retirement home overseer's abused her and her friends. Her sister confirmed this, and when she had complained of pain, she was told to 'shut up and go lie down'. The social workers at the hospital began to take her case, to help her out.
This lady was the same age as my mother, but the difference in health was quite striking. I wonder if it just had to do with the cigarette habit? Probably a million other considerations as well.
The daredevil began doing better , and was sent home. Meanwhile, my vitals were taken at a steady pace, and looked pretty good (actually, my blood pressure, temperature, heart rate and oxygen saturation were pretty much perfect the entire time that I was there... part of the reason why I waited so long to be seen I guess. This is probably due to the lack of smoking - at that point I had not smoked in 6 days when the nurses asked how I was doing, I answered "aside from the broken leg I'm as fit as a horse! Wanna dance? :D")
I like nurses, they are nice. :D
Anyways, I digress...
The replacement for daredevil was a ms. laflanne, who was brought in in hysterics. She had ahad a procedure where her stomach was removed (what?! ya, really...) and for six months, she had had nothing to eat but a glass of milk. Anything else burned her. She was in a fairly sad state, and demanded to use the phone so that she could call her husband. "Jai peur" she said, and asked the man to come quick. He came and stayed with her, and she calmed down significantly. I guess that's love right there.
Then the elderly smoker was sent home, and replaced by an old babushka, who was very kind. She had some kind of bladder infection, and was worried that her treatment would interfere with her sixtieth wedding anniversary that was upcoming. Her husband arrived shortly after. They asked me to guess his age, the man was 94 years old. He had been on pension since 1976 - one year before I was born. And he took the bus to get there, and offered to help me more than once when I was trying to roll over to the bathroom on one crutch and I.V. stand, using my patented hop-slide technique.
Ms. Laflanne was wheeled off to parts unknown, and was replaced by Mr. Vivenko, who is perhaps the bravest human I have had the pleasure of meeting. He had a month to live, due to cancer eating his body, and was in palliative care. He had a cough, and they were trying to alleviate it with some oxygen and other treatments. All the time he joked with everyone. One of the nurses was a bit thoughtless and rude to him, and his (pretty) daughter lost it, saying " you should not fight with my father". Mr. Vivenko, elder statesman that he was, smoothed over the concerns and made both people feel better. When He was heading back to Mount Sinai (to expire) he raised his fist at me and wished me good luck and gave me a big smile. I smiled back and wished him well, but I thought to myself "How..." :(
On Friday, they said definitely today. Friday night, they said, sorry - the list is full.
Saturday morning, my mom came by and was sitting with me when we heard the flop-flop of running hospital feets, and a nurse came in and said - orthopedics called, they're coming for you. My mom cheered, as did the nurse, as did I.
An orderly came in, transfered me and my broken leg over to a stretcher, and off we went, pass the doors marked 'operating room'. I told my mom to go home and relax... but of course she waited anxiously for news.
Past the O.R. doors, I was greeted by a tall thin german woman, who began explaining my options for anesthesia.
My options were general (knock out) or local (lucid but unfeeling). I asked about the associated risks, how the various options impacted recovery, and decided to go with the local. This was known as spinal anesthesia.
I sat on a cold metal table, curling my back and trying to protrude my spine as I was advised. I was then nailed between lower vertabrae by a needle within a needle (apparently one is needed to puncture the skin, the internal needed to slip between the vertabrae), and the drug diffused throughout my lower body.
My legs began to feel like meaningless chunks of meat attached to me that may or may not have been someone elses.
Spinal Anesthesia is a very strange feeling (or lack thereof).
I was then stretchered to the O.R., placed on the operating table, and strapped down in an iron cross. They moved my croggled leg around (wince) and began discussing various things.
It sounded to me like things were going well. I could not really see what was going on because there was a big blue curtain between me and the operation, but I had no great desire to see my bones or any other internal parts.
The anesthetition asked me if I wanted something to make me sleep, but I was ok, so I just lay there, trying to be strong, focusing my energy, trying to stay calm, cool and collected.
The bone surgeons had a conversation about the picking up of french by new surgeons, it got a little heated, but the surgery went well. They took a metal based string of kevlar and I guess wrapped it around my tibia, pushed the protruding bone back to where it was supposed to be, and sewed it all up nice. All in all it took about an hour.
The surgeons told me that I had done well, and gave me some advice, They also mentioned that they could see I had had a weird growth spurt common among young tall lanky people around my knee but that it was nothing to worry about, and that my knee now would heal up nice.
They vacated, and I was carefully moved over to a stretcher, then rolled up to the post op unit, which basically was a room where outpatients lay, hooked up to various monitors, being, well, monitored.
Although one of the conditions of the surgery was I would have a post op room, there was some difficulty in finding one. But one was found, and one of the ubiquitous and overworked orderlies wheeled me up to 1237d, where I was to convalesce until I was able to go home. As far as the bone surgeons were concerned, I was discharged and ready to go home.
But then came the pain.
In 1237d, I was introduced to my nurse, ms K. There were some other occupants - similar to the SSU, this room had 4 beds in it. Opposite me was an elderly Indian fellow, from New Dehli, who was quite interesting. He had a pretty Indian princess daughter, and its quite frustrating to be around pretty girls when your hair has not been brushed or washed in 10 days and you're sporting a 15 o'clock shadow from lack of shaving, you've got track marks all over your arms and you're in incredible pain. Still, I got her to laugh, and she flashed me a pretty smile.
Her Father was quite an intersting character and regaled me with stories of his fishing trips and his trips around the world. We exchanged some stories and he mentioned that his first wife had been on that infamous Air India flight :(.
Diagonally across from me was a fellow that had the loudest draconian snores I have ever had the misfortune of hearing. Its a good thing we were not near the morgue because his snores would have woken the dead. But... that having been said he himself was a nice fellow, and had some pretty unfortunate circumstances.
It seems that as he was mopeding along, some guy blasted through a red light and into him. He flew onto the hood. The guy then got out of his car. He took the unconcious man off his hood and threw him in the street, and drove off, getting away clean. This seems utterly inhuman to me, like, thats fucking sickening. I cannot say how that makes me feel.
To my right is a girl that's paralyzed from the waist down. She's a big tough type girl, short hair and big arms. She's been in the orthopedics convalescent room for about a year, having surgery every now and then. I'm not sure what exactly happened to her, but she is not in good shape, and is not always treated with basic human dignity and decency.
Theres something strange in this place. In all the other parts of the hospital I have been in, if you press a panic button, the nurses are there in max a few minutes. But in this orthopedics area, they don't seem to care as much, at least some of the people don't.
The girl to my right was falling out of her bed, about to crack her head on the tiles, and hit the panic button. She was hanging on for dear life, slowly slipping, pressing the button and yelling for help. She had to rip the panic button out of the wall, before a patient attendant finally walked slowly over. He said 'I'll be right with you', and walked off for a bit.
Eventually he helped her.
The indian fellow opposite me asked for help at one point and hit the button. No one came for a good half an hour.
I needed pain medication every four hours after the surgery - because having surgery on your bones does not feel like roses smell and chocolate tastes. I was in tears at one point, and could not hold myself from making small noises of pain.
I'm no wimp when it comes to pain, I hobbled down four flights of stairs with a broken leg and a stick.
But I was losing it. And the thing was, no one was keeping track of my meds. I would press the button, and ask for 'something for the pain.' They would get back to me, most of the time too late. The night staff was totally on the ball, competent and helpful, but once I started keeping track of my meds, I realized that no one else was.
I would ring an hour before my meds were due and tell the patient attendant to locate the nurse and have my meds ready. It took them about an hour to do this, so I managed to enforce my med schedule through force of will.
One time my meds were due, right after the bad morning I had when the nurse was late by 2 hours with my painkillers and was told that my nurse, nurse K, was on break. She was on break - holy fucking shit fuckery.
I got another nurse to get me the meds, nurse k showed up 3 hours later and asked if I wanted the meds now. I wanted to ask here what the flying fuck she was doing there, but instead I smiled and told her no, thanks so much.
The physio therapist came by and made me get up out of bed. It was really really tough, but I did it. Soon after I was walking around on crutches, and feeling great.
In a nice gesture, the high priest of my erstwhile faith and his wife came to see me on the second night. They did not berate me for not coming to mosque for the past 15 years, just asked how I was, re-iterated a similar experience, and said a blessing for me. I was touched, and the very fact that he did not mention the fact that I had not been devout in a long time makes me think that maybe I should just pop in one time...
I was in the post op room for 2 days after the surgery, the worst days of the lot according to the surgeons who came to see me.
Another nurse came in and almost removed my cast to redress it. I asked her to make sure she knew that she had to do this because the surgeons had told me that this was in fact dangerous.
She said 'oh, and left me there, my cast off, my broken sutered up knee open to all to see and totally vulnerable with no support, and dissapeared for a good half hour while I lay there. The leg slowly began to bend, and I began to worry that all my suffering was for nought and that this foolish nurse had just undone the surgery. This was supposed to be my release date, if you could understand the frustration I was feeling as I lay there, well, it was rough.
I was alone in that room, cast open for some time when the physio therapist came in to train me in the secret art of stair-climbing with a broken leg and crutches, and saw me all vulnerable. I was very frustrated, and may have snapped at her a bit. I asked her to find my nurse.
Finally the nurse came back and said 'o ya, the doctor said we're not supposed to touch the cast until you come back for a follow up'. She smiled. I wanted to kill her.
Instead I smiled and said, hey thanks. I didn't even say "don't you think you should have checked that before you nearly fucked up my leg?", or "are you a fucking lunatic?", no, I just said, cheerfully "hey, thanks" and gave her a smile. She smiled back.
Then she gave me my follow up appointment, the big boss doc came to see me and spoke mostly to an underling, pointing at me as if I wasn't there. I said hi and asked him a couple of questions. He seemed surprised. But he answered them.
After a bit of stair climbing training I was pretty much free to go. I had called my mom and she was on her way. At around 3, she showed up, and I crutched my way out of there, loaded up in the car, and headed home.
In pain, constipated from pain killers (yay) and a little disoriented, I was finally free.
One night of sleep at home was the best sleep I had had in 10 days.
I desperately wanted a cigarette, but my brother had bought me a stop smoking book that I had used before to quit, and I knew it was effective, so I read that instead.
I feel about a hundred times better right now. Now I can think about life, and now I can heal.
The follow up is in a few days, after which I should be able to work.
They may be setting up a vpn for me, so maybe I can even start before that.
The leg should be as good as new inshallah in four to six weeks.
So, here I am at home, recovering slowly.