perspective

It's all about triage. Who's got it worse right now? Well, not me, I can tell you. I'm sitting in my favorite morning chair, drinking coffee, enjoying my meager dose of Loritab (5 ml less than allowed) and feeling pretty self-congratulatory about my "walk" to the corner and back).

When I came off the life flight copter and was admitted to UW Madison Trauma I was a pretty important guy. I got lots of quality attention and evaluation. It looked like surgery was imminent. Then a bunch of Wisconsinites got into auto accidents. Soon I was "competing" for attention with (literally) two SUVs full of wounded boy scouts returning from an outing. Okay, I have three broken vertebrae and a collapsed face, but these fellas are earnestly working on their "trying to die" merit badges and I'm "stable." Meaning I'm working on my "trying to breathe through a collapsed face" merit badge, and my "hold still and we'll get to you" badge. If that were my boy scout lying there, I would certainly agree with this reasoning. I agreed then, but bitchily.

Yesterday, I went to see a neurosurgeon, not mine, because he's in Madison, on referral from our GP, who was concerned about infection in my wound. The neurosurgeon was uneasy about even beginning to treat me when he wasn't sure what had been done. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted the folks in Madison to take responsibility. He had his folks, whom I had met for a total of 10 minutes, arrange an appointment in Madison and we got a call that made it sound like UW really wanted us there. This was all from his office, mind you, not UW.

When we got to Madison, I realized that this was exactly what I had been trying to avoid: an "admission" via the Emergency Room. Got there at about 3 p.m. The place was swamped (apparently more errant Wisconsinites trying to die). I had to admit that I was in almost no pain and that this was a wound check. This is the triage version of a "hangnail." The on call neurosurgeon from my actual department at UW was not PAGED until after 7 p.m. (Faithful readers know that this turned out to be a non-event, no admission, a change in antibiotics and then a release.) This means I occupied very expensive treatment space after travleing 3 hours by car, for a glorified clinic appointment. While I waiting a long time, someone else, inevitably, waited on me. And I should not have been there. I am not trying to die here. Not today.

Robyn, who is the only person I'm close to who did NOT have any interest in being a nurse, nurse's aide, etc., got to drive me home and put me to bed. There is a very funny story here about her frustration with me, the whole situation and a very rapid deterioration in personal care (the absolute first, I might add). "I'm sorry honey, but the urinal won' t fit there." I'll tell it later. Robyn has been more patient than I would probably have been, so we'll let the dust settle while I chuckle.

While I'm no longer a triage poster boy, every time I tell a new health person about my accident, my wounds, and my relative in-tact-ness, they all shake their heads and say "you could've died." For about an hour and a half, I had every wounded boy scout in Wisconsin trumped. I have managed to avoid any loss of neurological function. I'm looking at a full recovery, although I may not stand quite as straight as before. I am a certifiable NON-EVENT at emergency rooms across the mid-west. This, I believe is not so much an accomplishment as a lucky and safe place to be.

I took a walk this morning down to the corner and back. It felt pretty good. I used all my toes. They're homely but they work. Kind of like the rest of me.

Next up: Wired jaw weight loss plan. How does Sam cope with relative mute-ness? Beer through a straw? What will Robyn do for a project once Jeff finishes the deck?