Drugs and crutches

At five minutes to midnight, they come to get me. This time, I get to travel in the bed instead of the wheelchair. I did plan for a luxury trip after all. Daniel, who has stayed with me all this time, waves goodbye and wishes me good luck. The bed and I get to the operating room which has the required enormous lamp the size of Luxembourg. This is comforting as I was expecting candles and a coven of witches to be present, given the hour. But who knows, maybe working on Tuesdays is against the rules of the WAWU—the Witch And Warlock Union. 

My friend the anaesthetist is there. He inserts an IV in my arm, places a mask on my face, and tells me to breathe. I readily oblige since I wasn’t planning on stopping that particular activity anytime soon. He wishes me good night, and as I fight to keep my eyes open, I regret not having asked for a tummy tuck at the same time as the ankle repair.

I open my eyes and it seems I’m back in my room, and this time, there is pain. It feels like my ankle has been glued back together with napalm. There are two nurses by my bed, but before I can impress them with my banshee imitation, one nurse hangs a bag of IV solution while the other adds medications to it. The pharmacist in me must still be anaesthetized because I don’t care if the IV solution is saline or kerosene, as long as the pain goes away.

A nice gin and tonic would do nicely toward that end, and I mention this to the nurses. They nod and smile at me. Either they don’t speak English, or they’re going to actually bring me one. I find out, much later, that they didn’t understand the “tchinnh aaad thoink” that came out of my mouth. Apparently it isn’t just the pharmacist part of me that’s floating in the ether, it’s the whole me.

A few hours later, I’m really awake this time. I look around. X-rays and CT scans are lying on my bedside table, including one radiograph showing the results of the midnight operating room escapade. A long metallic plate with eight screws, one of which goes almost from one side of the foot to the other, is anchored to my fibula like a centipede hugging a tree branch. Swell. 

Is this how the Terminator got started? A few metallic bits and bobs added here and there, and before you know it, you’re outfitted with red laser eyes and an Austrian accent? Double swell.

I wonder if there’s an expiry date on surgical hardware as there is on drugs. If so, does it mean you have to put it in by that date, or take it out when the date is reached? If so, does it beep like an egg timer at the due date and time? Or is it on vibrate mode, making your leg do a River Dance imitation when it goes off? What about the warranty on this equipment? Is it good for ten thousand kilometres or ten years, whichever comes first? Does it matter if you walk, run, skip, hop, stagger, or lurch? Does it require maintenance, screw rotation, or a lube job? 

Enquiring minds normally would want to know, but as the analgesic has taken effect, enquiring minds don’t care. Just as they don’t care that my leg, now encased in an inedible lasagne of cotton and gauze strips, will start to itch at any moment and not stop until pineapples grow in the Yukon.

Dismissing threats of imminent leg itching, I pick up the CT scans from my bedside table and glance at them. Right away, I’m impressed; the scans are three-dimensional. This explains the bevy of pictures that were taken. I never would have expected this level of sophistication based on the overly basic, almost primitive, ER department that I experienced earlier. Actually, this juxtaposition of innovative technology and traditional lifestyle is typical of Egypt, where sparks of super-modernism flicker amid the more sedate and rustic setting of everyday life. These fancy scans are just one such example. More will undoubtedly follow.

The phone rings. I feel my eyebrows shoot up into my forehead. There’s a phone in here? My first impulse is to ignore it as it’s probably a telemarketer. The phone keeps on ringing so, irritated, I answer it. It’s my sister’s ex-husband. Huh? I must still be under the effect of the zombie drugs. That’s the only logical explanation for this weird auditory hallucination. I mean, why would my ex-brother-in-law be calling me? Here? In Egypt?

 The hallucination is still talking. The zombie drugs are not to blame. I find out that the travel agent had contacted my sister, and told her about the broken ankle and the surgery, but nobody knew to which hospital I’d been admitted. As her ex-husband speaks Arabic, he got the job of contacting the hotel and finding out where I was hiding. I tell him I’m fine. He tells me that my sister will call. She calls. I reassure her and tell her I’m fine. It’s pointless to tell them otherwise as they would just worry, and besides, I’ll really be fine when my gin and tonic comes.

I sleep a little. The phone rings again and again. Friends and coworkers are taking turns calling, first, to see how I’m doing, and second, to know if the gimp is coming home. My response is immediate and categorical. No. Nuh-uh. Niet. I certainly haven’t come all this way to just turn around and go home. I don’t even have to think about it. I’m here and I’m staying.

I visually explore my room some more. There’s a bedside table with a drawer. I open the drawer and it’s full of drugs. Oh lordy! Antibiotics, anti-inflammatory medications, and blood thinners among others. What is this? I can only guess that I’ll be the recipient of this stash at one time or another. The pharmacist neurons are activated and I start taking inventory, checking expiry dates, and reading the drug monographs (lucky me, they’re in both English and Arabic). 

The nurse arrives to administer the two antibiotics from my little stockpile of drugs. I know that the monograph’s instructions state to dilute each drug separately in a small IV bag, and infuse each one slowly to prevent irritation to the vein. 

I figure the nurse has skipped reading this bit—or only reads Swedish—because she draws the drugs together in one syringe. She then injects the resulting sludge directly into the vein in my arm with the force and speed of a piston in a revved up Ferrari engine. My inner pharmacist shrieks and nearly has a coronary. My calmer outer self stays vigilant for any indication that my arm is about to shrivel to the size of a twig, and crumble away in a cloud of dust. Luckily, my limb remains unscathed, even after repeated doses of antibiotics. I eventually conclude that my veins are made of vulcanized rubber with a non-stick coating. I also conclude that I’m a step closer to acquiring the red laser eyes. Camels beware!

After the venous assault, Broomhilda the nurse makes her way to the washroom and returns with a glass of water. She hands me a pill and the water. Tap water. Every guide book tells you not to drink the tap water. There are signs in the hotels warning you not to drink the tap water. This concept is so prevalent that you would almost expect Muezzins to shout from their minarets not to drink the tap water. So, unless this institution has its own water treatment plant, I can only presume that the hospital is low on funds, and that prolonging my stay via the cholera experience is a revenue generating venture. I narrowly escape this new menace by ingesting the pill with my leftover morning orange juice, thus deflecting the watery attack. I make a note to ask for bottled water and more juice. 

Pretty soon, Mother Nature sends me a message. I need to go. As there is a bathroom in my room, there’s no need to bother the nurse for this. My persona has a strong independent streak, you see. I just need to figure out how to get there from the bed, on one wobbly leg.

The answer comes in the form of a heavy wooden chair. I hop off the bed and hop over to the chair. Holding on to the armrests and kneeling on the chair with my bad leg, I propel myself and the chair forward with my good leg, scooter-like. Overall, this seems to work well, except for the noise. The screeching produced by the wooden chair legs scraping on the linoleum floor is enough to wake up the dead. I briefly imagine the hospital morgue’s guests running amuck, hands on their ears (at least those who still have them) yelling, Make it stop, make it stop. Bring her a bedpan!

Putting my reverie aside, I make it to the bathroom without alerting the living, the dead, or anything in between. I am proud. I am woman, hear me pee by myself. I then realize that I’ve been saved by a chair. Again. 

Later that day, before I can replay my wooden concerto, a nurse appears bearing shiny new—and longed for—crutches. Perhaps it’s just good timing, or perhaps, because of the din produced by the bathroom expedition, the nurses decided to get me the crutches before their hearing lost any more decibels. No matter the reason, I now have a mode of locomotion other than the chair. I can be independent. I’m feeling happy for the first time in two days.

The nurse hands me the crutches, still in their plastic wrapping, and stands by. I guess it’s up to me to do the honours and proceed to unwrap the first crutch, then the second, and still the nurse just watches. I stand up, thinking that he (it’s a male nurse) will help me adjust these things to the correct height. I hand him one. He looks at it as though he’s never seen such a beast before. I take the initiative. Playing with my crutch, the kind that go up to mid-forearm with a plastic loop to put your arm through, I change the height of the telescopic tube up and down to see what is most comfortable. 

Expecting the nurse to have done the same with his, I glance over to see him wearing a confused expression on his face, and holding the crutch which is now in two pieces. For crying out loud! I retrieve the dismantled thing, promptly reassemble it, adjust it, and start crutching toward the door, the nurse on my heels; maybe he thinks I’m making a break for it. At the door, I spin around for another go toward the bed. Reassured that I’m not trying to abscond with the as yet unpaid crutches, the nurse leaves. 

Prancing around the room, I quickly discover that this crutching business is hard work. My arms hurt, my good leg hurts, and even my stomach muscles hurt. I flop back in bed exhausted. Can this whole thing get any worse? Yup!