As for why I'm done up: unfortunately, my efforts to getting in shape have undermined me once more. While doing some high-knees, I felt a snap in my right calf as if I'd been hit with a baseball (thrown quite hard). The pop was audible (Heather heard it despite us working out with music!) and the pain was, well, also audible.
Luckily we surmised that, despite the pain, the injury wasn't life-threatening, so we got our ducks in a row. We got a taxi to take us to the closest hospital (which in Canada when I ruptured a disc in my back I found that insurance would completly cover, no questions, as it's cheaper than an ambulance), and before we called, Heather (trooper that she is) packed us snacks, books, and warm clothes for me. I one-foot-hopped my way to the cab. As you'd expect, after my nightmare with a without-exception incompetent Alberta health system, I was quite worried about my foray into the French medical system.
The emergency entrance was fairly terrifyingly hard to find (it probably took us a good 7-8 minutes longer than it should have), and once we got in, we were... dismayed. Official signs were written in sharpie on printer paper and taped to the walls. Everywhere one looked was dingy, dirty, poorly lit. The wheelchair we found (just hangin' around, as if abandoned) was partially broken. Some parts of the hospital were eerily empty, others were full of just _heinously_ sick people. The place smelled funny and was really suffering from a woeful funding shortage (in fact I saw an article that I'll hunt down if there's enough demand for it about the underfunded state of the French medical system and a growing habit of importing doctors from poorer countries because the French are very short of their own). I'll be letting Stephen King know to visit for inspiration for his next novel.
The good news was that everyone was very nice and we seemed to be getting first-rate top-priority service. Everyone made sure to find people that spoke at least a bit of English for me and Heather was by my side to translate what the medical staff couldn't say in English. (Heather later mentioned it was some of her toughest--and thus best--French practice yet!) We were probably the... 15th? Or so to be in the first waiting room, but the first pulled out (within minutes!). The others there didn't seem to have particularly obvious signs of malady. (Later, one of our English-speaking doctors lamented that "everyone just calls the ambulance" whenever anything is wrong, because it is free, and I believe he was implying that he emergency room dealt with a lot of very unnecessary stuff. To those who are taking this as a political commentary I am not quite sure if I can draw any conclusions from it as I know E-Room staff in the US complain of similar woes.)
After being hustled along, the first 2 doctors saw us and prodded around on my calf and determined (as we expected) it was likely a rupture/tear of some sort. We were sent to radiology, where we waited for about 30 minutes. This part of the hospital was completely empty (and dark)--reception was empty, the halls were empty. Occasionally an orderly came by but ignored us. I almost took a panoramic of its creepiness, but I _did_ sneak this short clip of a light that flashed eerily due to a bad wire:
After a bit humans showed back up and we were taken off to... another waiting room, this one full primarily of elderly people who were clearly at their last legs and very clearly in a lot of (loud) misery. I was asked for my name 4 times, and got a bit grumpy, but have been similarly used to sorting confusion in the US. I think, as much as I hate to say it, that being young and cheerful kept attention on us and kept us from otherwise possibly slipping through organizational/operational cracks.
But finally I was pulled into a room by a very cool, young, English/French/Arabic/who-knows-what-else speaking doctor who got himself a handheld scanner for my calf. He didn't slee accumulating blood so it wasn't fully ruptured, but he believes there is a partial tear of tendon/muscle. Sad for me, it means being off my feet for a few days, and then slow, crutch-supported walking. We're re-arranging our schedule to make sure that our blitzes of the Louvre, Montmarte, Champ des Elysses, etc are not lost to us. The very good news is that I should be back to normal walking mode in about 3 weeks, so I won't have to take the crutches onto a plane.
For those who lament, "what awful timing!" remember: Fortune is a wheel that turns. I may not be at its apex as I was a day ago, but I remain very high in its esteem. I am in Paris, at a cafe as I write, about to turn to my espresso, croissant, and Toqueville. Envy me still.
Luckily we surmised that, despite the pain, the injury wasn't life-threatening, so we got our ducks in a row. We got a taxi to take us to the closest hospital (which in Canada when I ruptured a disc in my back I found that insurance would completly cover, no questions, as it's cheaper than an ambulance), and before we called, Heather (trooper that she is) packed us snacks, books, and warm clothes for me. I one-foot-hopped my way to the cab. As you'd expect, after my nightmare with a without-exception incompetent Alberta health system, I was quite worried about my foray into the French medical system.
The emergency entrance was fairly terrifyingly hard to find (it probably took us a good 7-8 minutes longer than it should have), and once we got in, we were... dismayed. Official signs were written in sharpie on printer paper and taped to the walls. Everywhere one looked was dingy, dirty, poorly lit. The wheelchair we found (just hangin' around, as if abandoned) was partially broken. Some parts of the hospital were eerily empty, others were full of just _heinously_ sick people. The place smelled funny and was really suffering from a woeful funding shortage (in fact I saw an article that I'll hunt down if there's enough demand for it about the underfunded state of the French medical system and a growing habit of importing doctors from poorer countries because the French are very short of their own). I'll be letting Stephen King know to visit for inspiration for his next novel.
The good news was that everyone was very nice and we seemed to be getting first-rate top-priority service. Everyone made sure to find people that spoke at least a bit of English for me and Heather was by my side to translate what the medical staff couldn't say in English. (Heather later mentioned it was some of her toughest--and thus best--French practice yet!) We were probably the... 15th? Or so to be in the first waiting room, but the first pulled out (within minutes!). The others there didn't seem to have particularly obvious signs of malady. (Later, one of our English-speaking doctors lamented that "everyone just calls the ambulance" whenever anything is wrong, because it is free, and I believe he was implying that he emergency room dealt with a lot of very unnecessary stuff. To those who are taking this as a political commentary I am not quite sure if I can draw any conclusions from it as I know E-Room staff in the US complain of similar woes.)
After being hustled along, the first 2 doctors saw us and prodded around on my calf and determined (as we expected) it was likely a rupture/tear of some sort. We were sent to radiology, where we waited for about 30 minutes. This part of the hospital was completely empty (and dark)--reception was empty, the halls were empty. Occasionally an orderly came by but ignored us. I almost took a panoramic of its creepiness, but I _did_ sneak this short clip of a light that flashed eerily due to a bad wire:
After a bit humans showed back up and we were taken off to... another waiting room, this one full primarily of elderly people who were clearly at their last legs and very clearly in a lot of (loud) misery. I was asked for my name 4 times, and got a bit grumpy, but have been similarly used to sorting confusion in the US. I think, as much as I hate to say it, that being young and cheerful kept attention on us and kept us from otherwise possibly slipping through organizational/operational cracks.
But finally I was pulled into a room by a very cool, young, English/French/Arabic/who-knows-what-else speaking doctor who got himself a handheld scanner for my calf. He didn't slee accumulating blood so it wasn't fully ruptured, but he believes there is a partial tear of tendon/muscle. Sad for me, it means being off my feet for a few days, and then slow, crutch-supported walking. We're re-arranging our schedule to make sure that our blitzes of the Louvre, Montmarte, Champ des Elysses, etc are not lost to us. The very good news is that I should be back to normal walking mode in about 3 weeks, so I won't have to take the crutches onto a plane.
For those who lament, "what awful timing!" remember: Fortune is a wheel that turns. I may not be at its apex as I was a day ago, but I remain very high in its esteem. I am in Paris, at a cafe as I write, about to turn to my espresso, croissant, and Toqueville. Envy me still.
No comments:
Post a Comment