Knee to the Groin

It is rather unfortunate that I have to inform you, my readers, that the “Winter of Dan” will be on hiatus for an extended period of time.  No…I didn’t find a job, get pinched, or get accused of statutory rape…again.  I just hurt myself.  It is quite the story…a ripping tale of trust, deceit, lust, and blood-soaked snow.  Sit back, relax, pop a few pain pills – you know I will be – and learn about the people that changed an ordinary day into an extraordinary journey.

It was a typical Saturday.  I awoke at 8 and stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee, and filled my bowl with Cinnamon Life cereal.  As I groggily made my way to the living room I noticed that the TV was already on and Grant was watching the local morning show.  Minutes later we saw the snow report…4-6” of new snow at Heavenly…we were ecstatic.  Yes, I know, 4-6” isn’t much to get excited about, but it is a godsend after 21 days without any snow.  Minutes later P. Tom came downstairs to share in the excitement with us.  Within the hour we were off.

As we travelled the backstreets towards Stagecoach Lodge I rolled down my window just a bit to breathe in some of the fresh mountain air.  There was something special in the air.  There was something special about the day.

The three of us tightened our gear in the parking lot before heading to the mountain.  As I grasped the car keys in the my right hand and pushed the “lock” button I couldn’t help but notice my phone was still in the car.  I don’t always ski with the phone and usually don’t even think twice about leaving it behind in the car…but that day was different.  It was kind of like the opening minutes of the movie Castaway when Tom Hanks’ character has the Swiss Army knife in his hand only to give it back to that bitch, Helen Hunt, before boarding his plane.  I walked off towards the ski lift.  I would never be the same again.

P. Tom, Grant, and I maneuvered around the mountain for an hour or two…taking as many lifts and runs as we could.  It was relatively early and the snow was relatively fresh.  As we headed up Olympic Express our spirits were high.  We descended from the chair and headed to the right.  A few seconds later we were all heading down the run.  I was the first to reach the bottom of the run and I waited near the chair lift for my two accomplices in snow play.  The wait turned to minutes and I soon decided to head off on my own.  Back into the line for Olympic Express…one last time.

As I rode the chair up the mountain, by myself, I looked through the trees of The Pines to locate a line to ski down.  I hopped off the chair at the top and headed right, like I had so many times before.  As I gingerly turned left and right behind the traffic and I became frustrated at the pace and turned left towards the trees.  I skied along through the trees with control and minimal speed.  Moving further and further to the left I was nearly out of site of the entire world.  A lone skier in blue ahead of me and one in red behind.  Near solitude…tranquility.

Then all of a sudden something happened.  It happened so fast I’m not sure exactly what started it.  Did I hit something?  Did I get crossed up?  Whatever did go wrong caused me to take a spill and tumble down the mountain.  I came to a stop and just sat in the snow.  My left ski was long gone, laying somewhere up the mountain.  Then, came the lone skier in red…carrying down my left ski.

The skier in red was named Paula…a kind woman with a British accent.  She lived in Pittsburgh, PA and was on the west coast to visit her brother who lived in San Francisco.  She came to my side and asked if everything was OK.  I told her it was and that I was a just a little shaken up.  Paula then looked at my leg and noticed the snow around me was turning red.  Blood red.

An instant “oh shit” erupted from my mouth as I noticed the large cut in my pants, just above my right knee.  I knew something bad had happened.  I knew this was to be the start of a very long day.  Paula called down to the skier in blue…he was her husband...he was off to get a medic.  I sat in the snow motionless, pressing a stocking cap against the knee in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

The ski medics are an interesting sort.  If you saw most of them without their red vests you would think they were homeless drunks, at best.  The man who came to help me was named Marshall.  He looked to be in his thirties with hair and a beard that hadn’t been cut since his mid-twenties.  Marshall asked if I could move my foot and toes…I could…good news.  He then grabbed his scissors and cut my pants off, just above the knee.  His nametag said he was from Colorado but I would have guessed he was from somewhere in Europe as his Roman hands and Russian fingers caressed my inner thigh at a location a little too high for comfort.  I told Marshall we didn’t know each other that well and he chuckled.  I could tell he was happy to not be tending to someone in panic.  I was collected.  I was as cool as the other side of the pillow.  I was the epitome of calmness.  I was like the Cadillac of men…an injured Cadillac of men.

Marshall inspected the wound, wrapped up my knee, and put my leg in a brace.  I hopped into the stretcher and he wrapped me in.  A few minutes later and we were ready to go.  I thanked Paula and she wished me luck.  I was heading down the mountain.

Watching people getting placed on the stretcher and being stretchered down the mountain has always intrigued me.  It looks so elaborate and complicated.  It really isn’t.  It was only a matter of minutes before we were down the mountain at the Boulder Lodge.  I was then taken into the medic’s hut to fill out some forms.  Typical stuff…name, age, date of birth, intercourse safe word, etcetera.  Marshall told me I would be taking an ambulance to the clinic for stitches.  I refused.

You see…I don’t have a job and when people don’t have jobs they don’t have health insurance.  When people don’t have health insurance they have to get crappy temporary health insurance plans.  That’s what I have.  Now I’m not exactly sure what is covered under this policy that costs $84 a month…and I really didn’t feel like pushing it.  So, I refused the ambulance.

That’s when I met Stephen.  Stephen was the dildo assigned to drive me to the clinic in a minivan.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of Steve’s and Stevie’s and Steven’s…but not the “ph”.  I have never met a Stephen I liked…and this guy wasn’t going to change my mind at all.  As I hobbled into the back of the minivan, the red biohazard bag that was affixed to my leg snagged on the door.  Well…I guess that’s the risk you take when refusing the ambulance.  On the way to the clinic I asked Stephen if we could stop at my car to pick up my phone and drop off my stuff…he said no.  Fuck this guy.  Fuck Stephen.

Stephen pulled up the clinic and went in to get me a wheelchair.  He pushed me into the clinic, carried my shit in for me, and then headed off.  Fuck you Stephen…I hope I never see you again.

The clinic was a proverbial shit-show.  No one seemed to know what the fuck was going on.  I was one of their three patients and they couldn’t even remember my name.  Whatever…I just wanted to get this over with.  I was wheeled into an examining room in the back and greeted by a nurse, Krystie, and a doctor…can’t remember his name…well, lets just call him Dr. Dildo.

Here was the conversation I had with Dr. Dildo:

DD:  Looks like you cut yourself there…how did that happen?

DR:  (pointing to my ski boots…still on)  Skiing…I think.

DD:  Pretty deep cut.

DR:  OK.

DD:  Going to need some stitches.

DR:  OK.

I think we all know why he will forever be known to me as Dr. Dildo.  This dude had the personality of a Stephen-AIDS hybrid…no idea what that means, but we all get that it sucks.  So Dr. Dildo gives me a little local anesthesia and the pain goes away for a bit.  Krystie starts to clean the wound make small talk with me.  I give Krystie a once-over with the eyes to see what we’re working with.  Krystie is a sweet gal but had the physical proportions that can only make you think what a cruel sense of humor God must have.  Krystie had the upper body of 95-pound girl with the lower body of, well, me.  Shit just didn’t look right.

So Krystie is cleaning out the wound and is ready for Dr. Dildo (Double-D) to come stitch me up.  The knee still hurts like a motherfucker so I ask Double-D for a little more juice.  He says something like, “that should have been enough,” and I respond, for the first of many times on the day, “I can handle my sedatives”.  More juice into the knee and Double-D starts to stitch.  After about three stitches he stops, looks at me, and says, “you need surgery.”  Fuck.

Krystie then wraps up the knee and wheels me up to the front desk.  They are about to call for an ambulance to take me to the hospital, but once again, I refuse.  They then arrange for the next-best transportation…a taxi.  To ensure I don’t go home or stop anywhere along the way they pay the cabbie in advance and give him strict directions.  Before being sent off the woman at the front desk asks if I need to call anyone.  Who could I call?

It is 2009 and I’ve done my fair share of drinking/brain damage over the last ten years.  I’ll admit, the memory isn’t all it used to be or could be.  As I sat there in that chair I realized something…I only have two phone numbers memorized.  One number is my parents.  They’re about 2,000 miles away and panic very easily.  The other number is The Choz.  Why do I know his number?  Well…because he’s the only asshole who hasn’t changed his number since college…still rocking the 319…still embedded in my brain cells.  So I call The Choz and tell him to call Chad and try to get a hold of P. Tom somehow.  I give some crude information on what has happened and where I’m going.  Like that Eminem song…one shot, one opportunity…some shit like that.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever taken a cab to the emergency room.  Yup…I don’t see too many hands raised.

My second regret of the day – leaving my phone in the car was the first – was not catching my cabbie’s name.  At the time I wasn’t really thinking about how many people would part of my day…sorry cabbie…you were a cool dude…and now no one will ever know your name.  Cabbie, it seemed to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind, always talking about the weather, to every fair who sat in…and you carried all my ski gear like it was included in the tab, I’m sorry I never got your name and that I got blood on your cab.

The final stop of the day…Barton Memorial Hospital.

As I exited the cab I was greeted by a male nurse, Christian.  Christian (Chris) was a swell chap…a straight-shooter and a stand-up guy.  He checked me in and took me to emergency room 4A…my new home.  I stripped down, put on my gown, and laid on the bed.  The gown was a light blue and gray plaid.  It didn’t fit well and did nothing flattering for my figure or my eyes.  It was horrid.  I was embarrassed.

The emergency room is a real downer…filled with nothing but the near-dead and the elderly.  Emergency room 4A was different…a pretty good time.  I kept things light with jokes to Chris, Kelly (the other nurse), and the girl who couldn’t talk…larringitis…lets just call her “Mutey”.

The surgeon, Dr. Swanson, soon came in to discuss what was going to happen.  I needed x-rays and then surgery to go in, look around, and make sure nothing is really fucked up.  He told me that if the cut was over to the side by an inch that my knee cap would probably be sitting in the snow with me.  Woah.  I asked if I was going under…he said yes...I got excited.

The x-ray technician, Ray – seriously, can’t make that shit up – came in and took me to get x-rays.  I don’t know if any of you have had x-rays taken on your knee before, but that one last shot, where the machine is just above your shoulder looking down from the top of the knee…well…I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure the 40 square-inches of lead didn’t cover enough of me.  Fuck it.  It didn’t hurt Lance Armstrong…it won’t hurt me.

Back to room 4A and the final steps before surgery.  Tetanus shot.  IV in the arm.  Electronic nodes all over me.  Tests for infections and diseases.  Paperwork. 

It is amazing how many things you need to sign before going under general anesthesia…if you’re alone.  One form to give the hospital jurisdiction over decisions on my life, one form to say who to call if I die, one form to ensure my eyes go to Stevie Wonder if anything goes wrong…lengthy process.  Ok, ok…that last form doesn’t exist, but I did make sure every nurse was aware of my ocular wishes.  Yes…I stole that from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.  Yes…I don’t care, it’s still funny.

Oh yeah…all those forms were administered to me by Mutey.  It’s always enjoyable to have to read instructions the nurse is writing on the dry erase board because she can’t talk.  Can’t make that up either.

Just before getting sent off to surgery, P. Tom and Grant arrive.  Apparently the string of phone calls got to them in time and they were able to make it.  They hung out for a while, taking pictures of my knee, gathering my belongings, and meeting the crew.  Just as they were there, the anesthesiologist arrived and I was soon on my way to the pre-op room.  It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was empty.  We were soon joined by Mary, my surgery nurse, and the good Doctor Swanson.  Mary is going to be in Chicago for a week in March…if anyone runs into her, be sure to thank her for me.  Grant and P. Tom soon left and the anesthesiologist juiced me up.  One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thou…out.

The next thing I know I’m lying in another room…the recovery room…and I feel amazing!  If you’ve never been under general anesthesia…I HIGHLY recommend it.  It is like waking up drunk…but a peaceful drunk that slowly wears off.  Keep in mind not everyone reacts the same way…what can I say…I can handle my sedatives.

I come to and look around the room.  I don’t have my contact lenses in and I’m basically blind without them.  I see two figures across the room that look like women.  One approaches and says hello.  Her name is Nancy.  Then the other approaches.  Her name is Shannon.

Nancy and Shannon are, far and away, my two favorite people of the day.  Nancy, a woman in her mid-fifties, has been married for a number of years.  Her, her husband, and their children used to live in Frankfort, Illinois and have many friends and family in the Chicago area that they visit regularly.  If I had a time machine, and 1984 Heather Locklear was busy, I’d marry Nancy.  I mean, come on, a woman in her mid-fifties that watches Flight of the Conchords and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia…wow.

Shannon was a bit of a plain-Jane.  A sweet gal in her mid-thirties, on her second husband, who had never had a sip of alcohol in her entire life…oh yeah, she was from Utah…Mormon Alert, Mormon Alert!  Now there are two kinds of people who are Mormon…those who judge everyone else as blasphemers and those who accept the ways of life of other people.  Shannon was the latter…and that’s fine by me.  Shannon was a victim of the Angora Fire from nearly two years ago, having lost her home in the ordeal.  A real tear-jerker…hearing her story was like watching The Land Before Time all over again…sad stuff.

After getting to know my two, new, leading ladies the doc walks in.  He explains to me that all ligaments are intact – YES! – some tendons were damaged and removed – Eh – and I should be able to walk on the leg while it heals – YES!

Before you know it, a few hours go by and I’m ready to be released.  Grant and P. Tom arrive with some clothes for me, my contacts, and my pain killers.  One last ride in a wheelchair – Shannon let me wheel myself – and I was off.

So there you have it.  One knee.  One cut.  One stretcher.  One minivan.  One clinic.  One taxi.  One hostpital.  Six x-rays.  One surgery.  A shit-ton of stitches and staples.  Another DR story.

I’m going to the see the doctor tomorrow for more information on getting the staples out and recovery.

Thanks again to P. Tom, Grant, Paula, and everyone else.