Personal Injury

Sunday mornings, there's no DJ who mans the radio stations.  It's all run via computer software and in the course of playing music for the first few hours, the station will repeat some of the segments that other DJs had produced throughout the week.  One of the subject matters covered this week, people who wished they had a more interesting story as to why they sustained an injury.  Right away, I recalled the day I tore my bicep and the harrowing details that followed.

PART ONE: THE INJURY

I had been off of work prior to this injury, due to..., what else?  An injury.  I had a traffic accident that had resulted in a serious back injury which required months and months of rehabilitation.  I'd returned to work only weeks before this event occurred.

I worked nights at a local retail establishment and in the mornings, before we were set to depart for the day, we'd perform a thorough clean up of discarded packaging and other refuse.  We had put a stand up air compressor out that night and had an empty box, which we had filled part way with plastic wrap and other shit.  It didn't weigh very much at all, but when I picked the box up to place onto a flatbed cart, I felt something snap inside my arm.  It took me by surprise and as I recall, I scurried backwards into the racking, holding my arm with my free hand.

I'd be lying if I said it hurt a lot, because to be honest, it actually kinda felt cool, but it's definitely not something I wish to repeat.  It felt like an unraveling, which in actuality, it is.  I recall the blinds that my great-aunt, Chrissie, had at her house.  As a child, we weren't allowed to adjust the height of them because, I'm guessing, at some point, one of us idiot kids, tugged on the blind and let it go, sending it skyrocketing to the top of the window, thus requiring a tall ladder to scale to retrieve and return to the lower portion of the window.  If you've experienced this, you'd be familiar with the thwap-thwap-thwap sound the blind makes as it reaches the top.  This is exactly how my arm felt.

I knew right away what I had done to myself and when work was finished, instead of heading home for some much needed rest, I instead found myself in the waiting room the the University Hospital.

PART TWO: A QUESTIONABLE DIAGNOSIS

The case was performed by medical interns, who first sent me for X-rays, which proved inconclusive, so they followed up by performing an ultrasound on my arm.

The whole time, I was insisting that I had torn the bicep, explaining that I felt it unravel inside my arm, but they weren't having any of that.  They kept forcing their belief that I would be in a world of torturous pain if I had, indeed, torn the muscle from the bone.

I insisted that pain is only a figment of the imagination.  It's fear-based and most of those who experience pain, manifest it solely because of a fear of the unknown.  Like, "Holy shit! What did I do to my arm?" kind of bullshit.  This was not the case, here.  I firmly held my ground, insisting that this was the reality.  The young know-it-alls would not succumb to my claims.

The ultrasound proved as inconclusive as the X-rays were.  It was at this time that the surgeon popped in for a consult.  The interns, having fun at my expense, tried to get the doctor in on the teasing.  "He claims that pain is fear-based and because he 'knows' what he did, he's not feeling any pain." 

I recall the doctor pausing, leaning his head from left to right, then replied, "Yes.  That sounds reasonable."  Suddenly, the room got quiet, the physician leaning in between two of the three young docs, his eyes fixed on the video feedback on the monitor.

"It's difficult to see just how bad the damage is.  We'll have to open it up to get a good look."

Long story short (too late 😉), the surgeon pulled me aside the day after the surgery and reported to me with a huge smile smeared across his face.  "Yep!  You tore that sucker clean off the bone!"  He slapped my knee, continuing the tale with a chuckle in his voice, "It was beautiful.  You couldn't have torn it more perfectly."

He went on the explain that normally when someone tears the tendon, it looks like a bomb went off, but in my case, the tendon had torn right at the bottom most portion.  He told me all they had to do was trim some of the shredded portion off then they pulled the tendon down through the two bones of my forearm, then attached the tendon to the back of the Humerus bone of my upper arm.  Because so little of the tendon had to be removed, he speculated that I should reclaim full use of the arm.

I've seen people who suffered a much worse injury than mine, who were left with a semi-crooked arm.  They can never extend their arm fully, whereas myself, I can.

PART THREE: THE AFTERMATH

Immediately following my meeting with the surgeon, I was fitted for an odd looking apparatus that was designed to hold my arm in a certain position to better the healing process.  Hold it in a manner where full movement would not be an issue in the future.

The apparatus was odd.  It had a cuff that clipped to my upper arm, with a hard immoveable cable attached to the lower portion which kept my arm twisted so the inside of my arm would face upward.  It was quite cumbersome and it was difficult to wear a jacket.  This, of course, occurred in late-November, early-December, when it's necessary to wear a heavy coat.  With this contraption strapped to my arm, I couldn't hardly zip the jacket up, which made me appear to be quite the attraction.

Of course everyone is going to ask what happened to me.  You couldn't look at the pathetic nature of my appearance without wondering, "WTF?!"

The truth, which I shared with you at the top of this page, was boring and lackluster, so I embellished it some.  Embellish isn't really the correct term, but exaggeration is completely accurate. 😂

On one particular evening, I was with my best bud, my brotha-from-anotha-motha, at a local drinking establishment.  Actually, it was the one and only bar in the town of Delisle, where Dan had been living with his family.  Prior to this date, we'd partied in that bar a few times.  It was especially fun when they'd have karaoke.  I admit that I can't clearly recall any of those prior visits due to high alcohol consumption, but on this day, I don't believe I was drinking.  The last thing I'd wanna do is fall down and reinjure my arm.

The waitress came over to see if we'd like another beverage, when she noticed the contrivance strapped to my arm and immediately asked what had happened.  The truth being a snooze-fest, I changed the story to the one I had been repeating to everyone I had been encountering up to that point.

PART FOUR: THE STORY

I told her that I was walking downtown when I heard a woman scream, "Stop him! He has my purse!"  I looked ahead of me, where I noticed the woman screaming for help.  Between her and me, was this fellow running through the crowded sidewalk.  Being a fan of pro wrestling, I knew straight away that I could remedy this situation quick and as the man was about to run past me, I extended my left arm, throwing it into the man, forcing him to the ground.

The waitress was enthralled, leaning in, mouth open and hanging on my every word.

"Right away," I told the server, "I knew that I had torn something in my arm when I clotheslined that thief."  

The waitress leaned back, muttering "Holy shit!"

Enjoying the ridiculous reaction I was getting, I added the tagline, "They wrote a story about it in the Sunday Sun.  I believe they called it, "Local Samaritan Saves Christmas For Out-of-Town Shopper".

"I'm going to go home and check that out." she said, before returning to the bar with our order.

"Why'd you tell her that?" Dan asked me, "Why'd you tell her about the article.  People out here don't throw anything away.  She's going to go home and search through every damned paper looking for the story you just told and she's never going to find it."

PART FIVE: THE EPILOGUE

I couldn't call into the radio station to tell them this incredible, albeit, made up story, but perhaps the subject will come up again, one day, and I will be able to call in and share some of my silliness.

Poor AJ Styles, clothesline by John Cena.

Sucker Punch

 

For years, people have poked fun, mostly in gest (I hope), regarding how much shit I'm allergic to.  These days, it's mostly foods that I need to be wary of, although there are some outside factors that can send me spinning into turmoil.

Allergic to the usual stuff, like nuts and sunflower seeds, which I don't even need to come in contact with.  If someone simply opens a bag or has a sandwich with peanut butter on it, my lungs tend to close up and breathing becomes laboured.  I'm also allergic to things like honey and beer and so many things that I doubt there's room to fit everything.  Chick peas, I learned the hard way, consuming some hummus at a restaurant many years ago.  My throat had closed off completely by the time I'd found a hospital emergency room that was open at 10pm.  This was when I found out that the City Hospital will not allow anyone in, no matter how bad they need medical attention.  Or at least that's how it was, twenty-plus years ago.

The one benefit to these allergies is that most of the foods that vegans and vegetarians (is there really a difference? 🤔) consume, is made with some item of food that I am deathly allergic to.  Sadly, that is the one and only benefit.  I'm allergic to dogs, so I doubt I'll ever be able to have a dog as a pet.  And I'm also allergic to beer, so there's no hanging out with the boys on the weekend, getting f*cked up and acting stupid.  Those who truly know me, though, are well aware that I'm able to act stupid, sans alcohol.

I'm also extremely allergic to perfume.  If women simply dab a little on, it bothers me, but I get over it quickly, but then there are those women who don't believe "just a dab will do", but choose to douse themselves with that nasty shit so that they don't just smell like whatever this shit is, but the environment around them does too.  One such lady boarded my bus on Monday and the smell has sent me reeling.  I've been sick for two, going on three days, so far.

I'm able to bounce back rather resiliently, but when my senses are overwhelmed, I find myself spiraling and I'm not even certain how to get out of the trouble it causes.  For three days, I've been sniffling, sneezing and coughing.  I've coughed so much that I swear my abs must look like a six pack, by now. (I haven't checked the mirror, but I'm happy to assume.)

The most unfortunate thing is I'm unable to go into the local drugstore, just down the street, as the moment you walk into the store, you're blasted in the face by a toxic mix of perfumes wafting towards the open doorway from the perfume counter greeting you immediately, like a slap in the face.  Like getting struck with a punch you weren't prepared for and as often as I visit this branch of Shopper's Drug Mart, I always forget that the perfume counter is right there.

For a company who prides themselves in the "ability" to help the public in need of remedies, they have a strange way of doing this.  Knowing how triggered many people's allergies are from just a whiff of perfume, WHY place the perfume counter at the front of the store?  The pharmacy should be in the front of the store and the perfume counter stuck back in the rear corner, away from the general public.

It's like the bulk store, putting nuts and peanuts at the front of the store.  I walk in there to grab some parmesan cheese, gummy bears or simulated bacon bits and I'm immediately punched in the stomach by rows of pecans, walnuts and peanuts.  Who designs this shit?  They need a firm smack upside the head.  Reboot that brain of theirs.

I remember as a kid, having such violent allergy attacks that it'd require my being placed in the hospital overnight or for a day or two.  I think it was my cousin's wedding that I went to, but had to stay in the Tisdale hospital, because we stayed at my aunt and uncles house, where they had a cocker spaniel.  Sparky, I believe his name was, but that's about all I recall of that dog.  That and he was completely black and would consistently make me sick beyond all belief.  Puffy eyes and laboured breathing.  I'd be hitting my asthma inhaler like a crackhead does his pipe, thus inducing an asthma attack, which for those unfamiliar is a scary situation.  Especially as a kid.  Each breath is a struggle.

As an adult, I've learned many techniques to avoid placing myself in such peril, but unfortunately, my job involves interactions with the public and that's a factor that I'm not in control of.  I can't predict the fool who will board the bus, ask me a question and spit a half cup of saliva on me in the process, just as I can't predict the woman who will dump a bottle of perfume on herself, instead of showering to get rid of her stink.  If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

Green Jell-O

In an effort to figure out what the "black mass" is that was discovered on my lung a couple of years ago, I underwent a simple procedure called a 'Bronchoscopy' on Friday, that involved having a tube equipped with a camera and a couple other devices, shoved down my throat and into my airway and lungs.  I've underwent a similar procedure, the 'Gastroscopy', more than a dozen times due to choking and swallowing issues. It's a procedure that is normally performed with anesthesia, but I've been informed that I've built quite a reputation hospital-wide, as being the only one to get that procedure done while fully coherent.  I usually drive to the hospital when the obstruction occurs, so naturally I'm going to want to drive home.  I'd NEVER leave my truck overnight in THAT neighbourhood.

The bronchoscopy is a much more evasive procedure, I was led to believe.  It began, much like the gascoscopy, where I'm shuttled into a tiny little room, surrounded by more medical professionals with more credentials and job-titles than I can remember.  The doctor, a real hack because of her shitty attitude towards my case, hands me a shot glass filled with a red cherry-flavoured substance, designed to numb the inside of my mouth.  She instructs me to pour half in my mouth then gargle.  "Do you need us to show you how to gargle?" she added, as if I'm a complete imbecile, but apparently, I was informed, there's a lot of people who don't know how to gargle fluid.  F*ck sakes, how stupid are people becoming, that they don't know how to 'gargle'?  I swished the concoction around like a true gargling champion, if there was ever such a thing.  Another freezing agent was then sprayed into the back of my throat to numb that region up, the reason being that it'd relax the region enough to receive an injection from a syringe.  Before that was to happen, one of the nameless other medical professionals sidled up to the gurney that I sat upon with two syringes filled with a clear fluid.  "This is a little something to help you relax." she said, with a soothing tone.  I watched as she injected the specimens into my intravenous tube.

"Now we're talking!" I said, gleefully, laying back on the gurney.  Just then I noticed the spots in the suspended ceiling tiles begin to spin frantically, the image resembling one of those hypnotic spiral posters you see at the carnival.  "Wow," I said, "This stuff really acts qui-"

That's all I remember.

Years ago, I tore my left bicep "clean off the bone", as the surgeon told me, the following day, after my operation.  I was, obviously, anesthetized for that procedure as well, as you can probably imagine.  I don't know how well my body reacts to being under anesthetic, because I heard a story from a friend who claims that I shared a hospital room with her ailing grandfather, who was none too pleased with the wailing coming from my side of the room.  I can't speak as to the accuracy of this claim, but there's no reason to embellish the situation.  Plus, from what I do recall from the experience, was repeated visits from the nurse-on-call, who'd come in and pump me full of morphine.  I don't completely understand the concept of addiction, but being on morphine provided a good argument.  So when I began to come out of my induced coma after getting tubes, cameras and other devices shoved down my throat and into my lungs, the process was, as I recall, as loud as it was confusing.

All I can remember from yesterday morning, following the procedure, was a strong desire for Jell-O.  I remember begging and pleading with the nurses in the section to bring me some Jell-O.  "I know you have Jell-O," I called out, "I've had it here before."  They declined the request, but offered me something to drink, instead.  Coffee, tea, orange juice or apple juice, were the options.  "No!" I demanded, "Jell-O!  I'll even take the green jell-o that nobody likes.  I know you have it!  Please bring me some."

Nicole, the prettier and younger nurse of the gaggle, approached me and softly gave me the list of options, again.  I softly responded, "I find coffee is gross.  Tea makes me pee too much.  I'm allergic to citrus, so orange juice is out.  And apple juice, I find, tastes like the afore mentioned 'pee', but I'll take some of that green jell-o you gals are hiding."

I continued for the next twenty minutes or so, pushing the green jell-o agenda, but the girls wouldn't budge.  Finally, it came time where I was coherent enough to leave the hospital, so walking on rubbery legs, I left the small second floor day-surgery locale and met my ride who brought me home.

I never did get my jell-o, sadly.  What does strike me as odd, however, is: If everybody hates green jell-o, why does it continually get made?  I've never once, in all my visits to cafeterias where jell-o was offered, have I ever heard someone excitedly say, "Ooh, good!  Green jell-o."  Always, 'ew, there's only green jell-o left'.

The woozy affect of the anesthetic.