Medical TLC

Barely gathering emotions to a speak to a shaken mother and father who’ve just taken news from a stranger of a son still lying, face down in dirt and hurt, asking them to organise my medical details. In my homeland, private health care is advisable, health care that wouldn’t let me in through the door without proof of cover.

(Typical South African Ambulance)

The ambulance arrived within minutes, and felt about my spin, pelvis, and neck, before turning me with the aid of the guardians who’d stopped onto the hardest wooden plank of a stretcher. Neck brace on, and straps, onto the cart-like wheel-burrow, and into the rather new looking van. Just before the doors closed, a middle aged European man with a farmer sound to him spoke from the side door with a brokenness of true distress – the driver.

He mentioned repeatedly that his wife hadn’t answered his calls – a need to share an uncertain burden while driving for 20 minutes. By the time his truck had slowed he couldn’t pull over safely, so continued to where he could turn, only to find he couldn’t stop on the opposite side of the road on return and had to pass to where again, he could safely turn. After assuring him I’d be alright, and that it was no fault of his, I could hear an easing in his tone.

A calmness of self soon grimaced at another homeland scenario as a radio call requested another pickup en route to the hospital where four cars had collided. Only two ambulances service the area, and I was sufficiently stable, so off the lady driver(?) sped. Its an hour fifteen from farm to Somerset West, and my folks beat me there…

At this point I felt so vulnerable as a captive to fate. So much gravel still stuck to my face, now starting to itch. But my right shoulder felt like a mess, and my left arm was strapped under. This frustration, together with the compounded jarring of a wooden plank on my hurting hip was equal to the torment of lying on the gravel. But I was generally in less discomfort and growing in hope of minimal damages.

The next devil’s poke was taking off my bibshorts with the material and dried blood and gravel all feeling like a scab ripped off. Oh yes, and explaining the Specialized shoe dial system to the nurse assured me my sense of humour wasn’t in tatters. An assurance soon tested by her probing for a vain for the drip. All of which were collapsed, as I was totally dehydrated and very much on the bonk threshold. Eventually we gave up on the drip…

But I dare say the x-ray girl outdid them all. Surely if we’re checking the potential dislocation of the shoulder, it might be sensitive? Unreal.

The doc soon announced only soft tissue damage (still cant believe), which left a few small wounds to clean while now clock-watching for the 5pm rugby kickoff. Murphy’s Law had my with kindest most gently natured nurse. The painkilling injection, two Cokes, and a few brownies had me revving for the door. She didn’t seem moved.

I got up to the Puma box (many thanks to the chauffeuring folks) just as the second half started. Such a brilliant atmosphere even though a thrilling finish did not go the way of the home side. A grand time there before relocating with some friends to a house party in Camps Bay and eventually some trendy as spot in Green Point. My best effort at celebrating the breath of life, and keeping the pain at bay till morning’s waking…