It's busted for real!

I’m taken to my room, a nice private one with a TV, couch, tables, closet, and bathroom. A nurse helps me don the universally recognizable hospital attire: the blue hospital gown with the open backside which, I imagine, would be quite a hit on the planet Uranus. Yes, I just had to point that out.

The nurse leaves at the same time as a technician arrives to do an ECG, bearing a cute little portable machine. After riding in Grandma’s Cyclotron for the X-rays, I’m relieved to see that they’ve got some modern technology, until she takes out the jumper cables. Each one of the leads boasts a huge, brightly-coloured, metallic clamp—each of a different colour—and a little suction cup. She secures one to each of my arms and legs, then, with a definite gleam in her eye, pushes a button on the machine. I envision my straight hair becoming instantly curly as a bonus to the anticipated electrocution. I’m rewarded with a total lack of sparks, limp hair, and a normal heart rhythm—a surprising result in light of all the suspense leading up to this.

As this technician leaves, another enters the room through the apparent revolving door, judging by the constant stream of folks coming in and out. This new arrival informs me that he needs to take some blood. I give him my arm and immediately retract it as he brings into view a needle the size of an ice pick. I must not have moved fast enough because my arm is easily captured and I’m drained like a beer keg at a frat party. 

After removing what I’m sure amounts to at least half of my entire blood supply, Nosferatu withdraws the needle and covers the puncture site with a miniscule bandage. Based on the size of the hole made by the needle, a cork would be more appropriate, although I’m lucky that he didn’t insert a spigot for future use. I’m hopeful that I’ll be allowed to keep the four blood cells I’ve got left. 

Next, with Daniel pushing the wheelchair, I’m taken to the cashier’s office to pay for the whole surgery and hospital stay. I’m not used to paying for medical services ahead of time, so if this doesn’t turn out well, do I get a refund? More accurately, since I’m insured and will get reimbursed, does the insurance company get the refund and I get a kitchen gizmo that chops, grinds, shreds, and juliennes, as a consolation prize? 

We arrive at the office, a tiny room which barely accommodates the wheelchair, so it’s a good thing that I’m not doing the driving. With my width radar not operating at full capacity, the complexity of movements required to get the chair close to the clerk’s desk is beyond my capabilities. I’d have better success trying to fly the space shuttle through the asteroid belt. This is no problem for Daniel, however, as he nestles the chair into the cashier’s nook with ease.

At the request of the clerk, I hand over my credit card and silently thank the Lord for a card with a high limit, as the charge for thirty thousand Egyptian pounds is put through. This, being roughly equivalent to six thousand US dollars, looks like a bargain compared to what it could be elsewhere in the world. I pat myself on the back at having had the forethought to phone the credit card company to let them know of my travel plans before leaving home. They’ll be expecting charges from Egypt. 

As if struck by a thunderbolt out of the cloudless blue Egyptian sky, I have a sudden moment of panic. Remembering that, during my phone call to the credit card people, I’d been asked if I ever would purchase anything over a thousand dollars at any one time, and my vehement negative answer, my stomach drops into my heels. What if they deny the charge? 

I don’t have long to wait for this fear to prove unfounded. The card machine hums and obediently ejects a strip of paper, making it clear that hospitals get the go-ahead no matter what. In one fell swoop, the clerk hands me the transaction record to sign, and gives me a very official-looking receipt. Then, with a smile, he wishes me a good day. Too late buddy, way too late!

After paying for the lodgings and entertainment, I’m treated to the CT scan included in the price of my admission ticket. Foreseeing another Jurassic piece of equipment, I’m in for a treat. They have a very new CT scanner, so new that I can’t help but look for a dangling price tag. 

With my leg in the doughnut hole, the technician takes three billion pictures in every possible position: leg up, leg down, leg bent, leg straight, leg turned right, then left, then right again. I mentally entertain the notion that the Happy Shutterbug is just playing with his new toy, taking extra scans just for the fun of it. Forty-five minutes later, we’re finally done and it’s remarkable that I’m not glowing and emitting enough background radiation to bring the expanding universe to a halt. 

Once I’m back in my room, the anaesthetist comes for a chat. After he tells me that I’ll be put under general anaesthesia, I pepper him with questions on which drugs he’ll use. The pharmacist in me is ever present and alert. The doctor very patiently answers my questions, and I answer his questions in return. I’m satisfied he knows his business. He’s satisfied I’m not planning to croak on his table. 

The anaesthetist leaves, and shortly thereafter, I get to meet the witching hour specialist; the surgeon comes for a visit. A very nice and pleasant gentleman he turns out to be. He reassures me and tells me everything will be fine. Then, calmly, he outlines his plan to install a lovely suite of hardware in my ankle as I’ve managed to fracture and dislocate one bone, shred a ligament, and dislocate another bone for good measure. 

That’s it then: I’ve definitely busted my leg. The Nile has been drained and swimming in it is now impossible. With denial gone, reality slams into my brain like a runaway freight train, causing my tenacious sprain theory to leap out of the window. I’m tempted to follow, but since I’ve lost my ability to leap, I stay in the bed. 

The way Pleasant Midnight Surgeon describes the entire procedure, the upcoming surgical foray promises to be a fun-filled experience, at least for him. Still, I would have been much happier had he been covered in feathers and proposed to dance around the bed, chanting and shaking a set of colourful maracas, in a bid to chase the evil spirits out of my leg.

Faced with the prospect of major surgery, I let my mind wander into areas it should not be allowed entry. Is my will up to date? Check. Insurance policy in place for repatriation of my remains back to the Mother Land? Check. Or should I opt for mummification since I’m in Egypt already? Can I get a discount on a sarcophagus? 

Without warning, my inquisitive but somewhat warped intellect takes an alternate route. Say, in military terms, if I have major surgery with a general anaesthesia, does that amount to corporal punishment? It’s best to stop thinking altogether, or smoke will start to come out of my ears and they’ll have more to deal with than just the ankle.