On the Monday before last, I walked into the gym for my
normal work out. It has become rather boring because the range of things I can
do to get my heart rate up is reduced to one single machine. I noticed however
that they were running a spin class and inquired about pricing and wondered out
loud if my knee, which as well as every other joint in my body, had been giving
me hell, could take it. The golden God at the front desk responded with,
‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, Melody!’ With a
smile and a horrid wink that made want to poke him in the eye and say:
‘That didn’t kill you… did it make your eye stronger?’ I did
not say this, however, and gave him the thumbs up sign with a grin on my face
that may have looked more like an insane clown rather than a
you-just-encouraged-me smile. But as I climbed on the dreaded elliptical
machine that I have to torture my body with, so that for a few hours a day I can
function at 80% normal capacity, I pondered his words. The pain I had been in
over the last week was not killing me but was definitely not making me
stronger… It was however making Alan stronger because he was carrying me
everywhere slung over his shoulder like a continental soldier. (By the way what
does that song even mean? Ears hanging so low you can throw them over the shoulder
like a continental soldier. It’s bad syntax and, if not, rather rude to
continental soldiers that may have had big ears. Here, I use the term as I picture
heroic continental soldiers carrying their fallen comrade from danger. And this
is how Al has been carrying me.) So I grizzled a little at the stupidity of the
bronze God. Or more accurately played my angry workout music and pushed harder
on those damn foot things until I nearly threw up. At which point I was unsure
if I had proved my point or his… But then, It seemed, that we were to put this
very clichéd line to the test.
Alan and Amelia left to walk princess buttercup AKA Percy. About
half an hour later I get a phone call.
‘Ummm Mom?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Ummm… Dad fell over and he can’t get up.’
‘What happened?’
‘Umm… the dogs ran him over.’
‘Put Dad on the phone.’
‘Hey Mel, I have to get off. I am waiting for the ambulance to
call me back.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t walk. I tried but I can’t move so I called an
ambulance.’
‘I can come get you.’
‘No. I am in the middle of nowhere and you can’t get me out.
Meet Amelia at the skate park. I have to go.’
The line goes dead. I drive to the skate park. The sun
disappears taking the last shred of light with it. It is pitch black and I do
not see Amelia anywhere so I start limping toward the wetlands where Alan is. Eventually
I hear rustling and a red-faced, wide- eyed Amelia appears out of the bushes.
‘I ran all the way here. IN THE DARK!’
‘Where's Dad?’
‘Umm really far - or not that far- or just this way.’
She heads back the way she came. We use the pathetic beam of
light on my cell phone to navigate the uneven ground, me limping (remember Al
is unavailable to carry me as was my habit) and Amelia trying to control Percy
who just wants to get back to his dad. The cell phone rings.
‘Mel? The ambulance says they can’t come and get me.’
‘What?’
‘They are saying they are going to have to form a search
party.’
‘What?’
‘I have to go they are having a nurse call me back to triage
me.’
‘What?!’
The line goes dead and I resume following Amelia who is being
dragged along by Percy.
When we have been wandering for about half an hour, we are
passed by Al’s walking buddy. (He has broken into and driven his four-wheel-drive into the gated swamp with the walking tracks) We breathe out in relief; now we can get a ride
and find Al.
He rolls down the window and says in his heavy Eastern European accent,
‘You need to go move your car. You parked in a bad place.
Someone will hit it. I will go get Al. Search and rescue won’t be here for
hours!’ Then he drives off. We stand there a moment and Amelia says quietly,
‘Umm why couldn’t he give us a ride?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I say as we begin hike-limping out again. Eventually,
because we are so slow, the SUV arrives again now with Alan in the truck and
this time we are allowed a ride. We pile in and I get the full story of the
collision.
Percy and his best friend were running full speed at Alan who
was momentarily distracted; they hit his knee forcing it back the wrong way. This
sounds very bad and I am sure ligaments are torn and he needs to get to the
hospital. I get my first look at the bulbous mass that is his knee when we
catch up to the paramedics who have hiked in. Despite dispatch telling Alan
they were not coming, they have traversed the wetlands with backboards and
pillows and a wheelchair with the wheels the size of a five-year-olds bike training
wheels. That honestly looks like the chairs they use to torture people with
water boarding or in a mental institution: no arms and tiny wheels. They apparently
didn’t get the message to give up…
As they reach us they get a more urgent call and say that Al
can go home if he wishes because nothing is broken. I am doubtful and say, 'I
think I will take him to the hospital.'
‘Up to you,’ they say and drive off.
When we arrive home, Alan collapses into bed and then refuses
to go to the hospital. Our friends Liz and Tyson are begging us too (they can’t
imagine how I will take care of him as they have frequently seen me being
carried by the injured man.) And they are pretty sure the injury is worth the
trip as I am. Al says he won’t need anything and he will be fine.
‘The lady said I will be much better in the morning.’ (He really liked the ambulance lady and decided, even though she had barely examined him, she knew EVERYTHING.)
‘I don’t think you will be! If you tore something you could
be in really bad shape.’
He refuses and, as it turns out, when you are severely injured,
you do need things in the night. So, at two a.m. I hobble around taking twenty minutes to get
pills and water and yell at him that he should be at a hospital with nurses
getting proper care. He demands to know why I am so mean and I respond with
because I’m mad that you are being stupid. We have a restless night’s sleep .
The next day, things get worse. We drive to his doctors which
is also an urgent care clinic. The nurse practitioner says she has never seen a
knee like that in twenty years.
She sends us for X-rays and ultra sound. They
can’t do the ultra sound there so we drive across town for the ultra sound and
then back across town to get the results then race back across town to the
emergency room (five minutes from where the ultra sound was) because, as I have
been saying all along, the X-ray has shown (not the useless traveling ultrasound) he has managed to mutilate his knee and needs to see an
orthopedic specialist. This self important man takes one look at the knee and
announces - Al needs surgery. His femur has shoved into his tibia breaking the plateau and he needs bone grafts and plates. Al asks,
‘What happens if I don’t have it?’
The doctor is a little confused by this question; because he is used
to a world where, if he says you need surgery, you grab a scalpel and start
operating on your own leg. After recovering from the shock, he says that Al
needs it because it will heal better and other I-am-so-important-words.
‘Can I stay awake or do you have to put me out?’
The doctor replies,’ Ummm what do you mean?’
‘I mean, can I just have a spinal?’
‘No.’ Then the doctor looks at me, I think to check if Al is
sane. I take over – the poor doctor-man is in such shock…
‘Al you do not want to know or hear or remember what they are
about to do to your leg.’
The Doctor says, ‘Yes.’ And holds the paperwork out to Al.
‘Ok then.’ Al says signing.
I race back the 50 minute drive to get Amelia from school and as
we are preparing for the return journey I get this text
I call to confirm that he has been put in the room with
criminals and he says,
‘Yes the roommate is “attached” to the bed. Please don’t
bring Amelia back here.’
I confirm that the “emergency rush" surgery has been cancelled
and we say good night and head to bed.
At four forty-five a.m. I hear the dissonant beeping of the dying battery in
the smoke alarm. I lay in bed wondering if it will give up or if I can sleep
through it. Half an hour later I realize I have no choice. I limp through the
house collecting a step ladder and try to balance my non-functioning feet on
each step. Then I reach up to the offending device and realize that you
actually need working hands. As I have told you before, often my hands are more
like stumps rather than functional appendages. So I am just poking at the damn
thing with my stumps for about ten minutes until I get the battery out. For a
few terrifying minutes the fire alarm complains and I wonder if we will be
doomed to listen to its wailing all night but then it gives up.
We navigate the next few days being bumped for more severe
injuries, Alan barely eating because they keep almost taking him each day and
driving back and forth to our rural home. Liz and Tyson feed me and Amelia food
fit for restaurants and Friday arrives. He is third on the list and I can’t
find cover for the class I am teaching that morning; so he tells me to go. While
on the phone to my sister Michelle, I lock myself out of the house with no way
in. I call our piece of *&^% landlord and ask if he has a key. He says, “yes, but not
with him” and hangs up. I can get into the garage so I focus my intellect on
the door that goes from there into the house thinking, it is the weak spot.
I try first picking the lock with a safety pin this is not
working which is strange; from my extensive love of movies and TV shows I had assumed I would be able to pick a lock with no training. Next, I take
the hinges off the door (We need to pause here to acknowledge that I TOOK THE
HINGES OFF THE DOOR. My inner spy has been unleashed!) but it still won’t budge. Michelle has her
husband Bryan call me and he does a series of visual demonstrations of how to
break in to a locked door… from America… with patience and locking himself in a
room and freeing himself multiple times so I can see. Paying attention to every
little detail, telling me what is wrong with my knife (yes Al keeps knives in
his tool box??) and repeatedly begging me to put the door back on the hinges so
that he does not have to watch me being crushed when I succeed. Which he is
confident I will. But I don’t have time; plus this is my only contribution to
the effort. Finally, I find this knife.
And drum roll (for real - if you have drums - go and
roll them) I finally do it and it turns out I am Bloody MacGyver!
(note the disemboweled smoke alarm in the distance...)
AND I am only 4 minutes late to my class - meanwhile Alan has been taken to
surgery. I arrive at his room ten minutes before he is brought back.
SO while I have many issues with Nietzsche my biggest one is
with his “what doesn’t kill you” quote because right now we are weaker than we
were two weeks ago and we nearly died. However I will admit that I did find my
inner spy and as it turns out this inner spy is *&^%ing MacGyver!!!
