The Break - Part II: Emergency Room
“Alright, Andrew — we’re at Bellevue now. Just stay right where you are. We’re going to clear the entranceway for you.”
I couldn’t tell if they were kidding, as I sat there strapped to a stretcher that was mechanically locked in place in the back of an ambulance. Regardless, I wasn’t laughing. I’ve never been good with hospitals. I was doing everything I could to mentally prepare myself for whatever lay beyond those doors.
The EMTs lifted me out of the ambulance and rolled me through the hospital’s back entrance and down a long hallway. I was greeted at the end of the hallway by some sort of receptionist/dispatcher, who asked what was wrong with me.
“Lower leg injury,” one of the EMTs said vaguely.
I signed a document and was wheeled into the central waiting area of the emergency room, which seemed fairly quiet that particular evening (which is a good thing, of course). At this point, my leg was killing me. My date, who rode in the ambulance to the hospital with me despite my repeated pleas for her to not worry and go home, motioned for a nurse. When one ultimately came over, I knew exactly what I wanted to ask for, but for some reason in that moment I had no idea how to go about asking for it.
“I, uh...uh, you know...this really hurts. Do you, uh...you think you can help me out with something?”
I felt like I was breaking some sort of moral code by asking for drugs, because I was conscious of the fact that the nurses probably dealt with multiple people every night who attempted to leverage hospital visits for a supply of painkillers. And in my failed effort to seem as polite and un-sketchy as possible (and as a result of my typical paranoid way of thinking), I’d imagine that’s exactly how my request came off to the nurse. So I was pleasantly surprised when she immediately replied, “Of course, honey. I understand. I’ll be right back.”
They gave me morphine. In about 30 minutes, I could barely feel my entire body, let alone my left leg. By the time my roommate arrived (he had blown off a corporate league basketball game and was still in his gym clothes), I was pretty much on another planet. In retrospect, I sort of wish I was more with it mentally, because I think I would have really enjoyed watching my date meet my roommate (who I’d lived with for almost six years and was basically like my brother) in the middle of an emergency room, with no one else to talk to but each other.
***
It seemed like I was endlessly being rolled around from room to room all night. I don’t recall a whole lot of specifics about the emergency room visit, but one person I will never forget was the x-ray technician.
He was heavyset, African-American, probably early 30s in age.
“You said you did this to yourself ice skating?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to need a better story than that. You can’t tell that to people and expect them to take you seriously.”
“Any suggestions for me?”
“You could say you were saving a little dog from a burning building and a piece of wood fell on you. That would work better for sure.”
“Hmm, I’ll think about it.”
“Whatever you do...just don’t say you were ice skating.”
Aside from his sage advice, the technician played a significant role that evening because of a word he taught me. A word that makes me cringe to this day whenever I so much as think about it.
Preparing for one of many x-rays taken of my leg at Bellevue Hospital. Notice my jeans. They were my favorite pair of Levi's, and the doctors had to shear off the left leg so they could cast me up. I was devastated. RIP to a classic and versatile pair of pants.
“Crepitus...you’ve got some serious crepitus going on right now.”
“Excuse me?”
He re-positioned my leg for another x-ray, and as he did I felt and heard all sorts of small movements and cracks, deep under my skin. It felt like someone was taking my shin bone and rubbing it against a cheese grater. It was nothing short of nauseating.
“It’s the friction of two rough edges rubbing against together in your body and releasing small air pockets in the process.”
I should have asked for more morphine right then and there, because that was only the beginning. I had no idea what was coming up next.
***
When breaking a bone, a fracture can be categorized as non-displaced. Basically, that means that while there is a break in the bone, everything is still in relatively good alignment and it can be left as is until further treatment is sought. Unfortunately for me, my fracture did not fall into that category, and I was informed after my x-rays that the doctors would need to “set” my leg.
For those who aren’t aware of what it means to “set” a fracture, it essentially entails yanking/manipulating the crap out of the broken bone until it goes back into alignment, which sets the stage for further treatment options (casting, surgery, etc). I was wheeled into an empty room and left alone with my thoughts for a few minutes until a confident, young resident strode in and told me what he was going to do.
I cannot remember the resident’s name for the life of me (not that I would publish it here anyway), but looking back I think it’s safe to say that his life’s work hinged on setting my left leg back in place that night. No matter how out of whack my bones were, he was not going to be denied in his efforts to straighten them out. Holy hell, I would never wish that experience upon my worst enemies. I was in so much pain that I was laughing. I felt like the Joker in that scene of The Dark Knight where Batman kicks the crap out of him in an interrogation room and he just keeps howling every time he gets decked. Even the resident eventually couldn’t contain himself from laughing. I don’t even want to imagine what it would have looked like had someone else been watching the scene unfold. It probably resembled an outtake reel of some low-budget foreign horror film from the ’70s. Within a minute of him finishing the job, I remember immediately demanding—not requesting—more morphine.
I remember eventually being rolled back into the central waiting room and being given a pair of crutches that were meant for people who ranged in height from 6’0” to 6’6” (I’m 5’10”). I remember being told I was free to go and my date finally agreeing to leave me in the care of my roommate. (Yes, she stuck around the entire night, despite the fact that she had a fairly big presentation to give at work the next day. What a trooper.) I remember my roommate wheeling me out of the front of Bellevue Hospital and hailing a cab for me less than three hours before he needed to be up for work. I remember inching backward up the stairs of our second-floor walkup apartment with my full-leg cast. I remember taking one of the pills they gave me as soon as I made it to our living room couch. I don’t remember anything after that.
