10
Oct
09

Does getting a toe wired mean better internet?


I was chasing and playing with my dog in the living room.   Now I walk like a duck, always have.  The doctor told me that my mother should have had given me a special brace or something when I was a baby.  So anyway, as I age, my right leg wanders out more, so my little toe caught on the cane sofa.  I felt shooting pain and looked down:  my little toe was at right angle with my foot.  This was not good.

So I had to do what I hate most: go to an Indian hospital.  Thank God we have friends there–the doctor on duty at the ER (they call it Casualty) used to come to our house.  Dr Sheeja is one of those rare Indian professionals who has a sense of humour so she got a good laugh in before she called in the orthopedic guy.  He took one look at it and said that I would need surgery.  “You’re kidding!”  He wasn’t.
Thank God this accident happened early and I didn’t have breakfast.  They could operate at noon.  Oh, and local anesthetic won’t be good enough.   Shoot.  I point out to the anesthetist that he wants to give me the same exact gas that killed Michael Jackson.  Someone gave my husband a menu card with  prices of rooms:  you could have the basic ward for so many rupees–all the way up to the deluxe single room with AC.  Yes, I had the deluxe.  My husband asked me if I really needed the delux, and I promptly gave him the Sicilan “the look” that could have easily put him in traction.  I remember that he’s been pretty amazing throughout this whole thing, taking care of the web of paperwork.

So I’m wheeled up in a rickety wheelchair by a village guy who never got his license.  I have nothing to protect my foot as I go through the hospital, and on the elevator, I’m the star attraction of the freak show–yes, right here ladies and gentlemen, we have the white lady with the pinky toe that goes sideways.  (I wonder what Indians call their pinky toe–a brownie toe?)  I wonder what physical therapy they give for the pinky toe.

Some nurse about 12 years old comes in the room to start my IV.  It must have been the second one she has ever done.  At least she is nice and doesn’t have that glazed look of indifference that so many can have.
After she leaves I realize I have to go to the bathroom.  I grab my bag and head to the bathroom, walking on my heel on my right foot.  I go to wash my hands–no soap.
They give me a hospital gown with Velcro that no longer works.  I learn to keep the two sides together as I wiggle on the gerney to go to the OR.  They cover my foot with a blanket.  I move the blanket off.  I’m almost too tall for the gurney and someone will bump into my foot if they don’t see it.
Then I’m on the operating table where there are no place for my arms.  They pull out two panels, and I’m in the position of the cross.  I’m counting backwards and the next thing I know is that some idiot with a mask is trying to wake me up from the most beautiful sleep.  In my drunken stupor, I ask him when will I dance again.  Maybe I think I’m am Michael Jackson.

I didn’t want to stay at the hospital, so I practiced yoga breathing to wake myself up.  Now I’m wired.  All went well, but the doctor doesn’t really discharge me and we have to wait until 7pm until we can leave.  My throat feels like the I 95 interstate highway during a drought in August.  The nurse says no water, but I sneak sips when no one is  looking.  She takes out my IV and blood spurts all over the place.  The guy with the wheelchair moves into EMT action and takes care of the problem.  Soon I’m all taped up. I survived; actually, this hospital is pretty good.  There’s lots of people around who are really suffering.  I got off easy.

I’m given no cast, no protection.  I find that my husband’s crocs work perfectly as protection.  Shep is wondering why I can’t run around with him.  I think he purposely caused this accident so I couldn’t go to work and would be with him.

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