A day of reckoning

Today John’s leg cast is coming off on Peter’s coffee table. And so will his stitches. And so will his super invalid post-surgery status. The first attempt -- with Peter’s chainsaw — produces a desired effect and terrifies the patient sufficiently to abandon all hope. 

Other stages follow, with one layer of gauzy wrappers after another expertly cut and allowed to fall apart until the leg itself is revealed in all its mangled glory.

But the promised “stitches” turn out to be crude metal staples. So Peter gallops to his hospital next door. It is a quiet Saturday, with no one around, and he hopes to sneak in and grab a staple-removing gizmo from the surgery. Grab he does, returns, and employs it. 

I expect to see the following item in our local paper tomorrow morning. On its front page.

"An unauthorized local physician sneaked into the surgery department of S.Joseph Regional Hospital on Saturday and absconded with a staple removing tool worth $29,99 Canadian. The purpose of the theft was not immediately established but the physician, whose name has been withheld pending future investigation of the incident, has been apprehended and brought to a local post of Royal Canadian Mounted Police. His small black dog, a nondescript mutt named Joey, seemed genuinely chagrined and may even plead guilty in order to protect his owner."

Never mind: such deeds, performed to aid a human in need, are always legal.

And here is John's leg, clearly liberated. Now just 6 more weeks on crutches with no weight bearing, and we may see him walking.

Not well. Not for long. Not pain free. But — walking.

©Yva Momatiuk

True North adventures

After being bumped off the day before to make room for some poor folks whose injuries were more severe, we arrive at the huge Vancouver hospital on October 1 to have John's leg fractures addressed with some appropriate hardware, including plates, screws and who knows what else. The sign we see  first makes us giddy with anticipation: what... if? And if "if" will be implemented, what may they cut off? In a country whose national rodent is beaver, cutting may be a popular pastime where nothing that could be chiseled off, cut, de-limbed and de-barked, and then saved for a long and frosty winter is actually sacred.

But let me backtrack a bit. The day before, we were bumped off after we waited (and waited) for John to be admitted, and had a chance to befriend his fellow sufferers, some of them victims of misadventures in their own scary wilderness. One, young Dax, was jumping a fence at night and  his lower leg did not like it all. Why should a seasoned and muscular ice hockey and football player succumb to a mere fence?  We do not know, but succumb he did. Dax’s papa, a sunburned and gentle character, brought him in. Another male sicko, handsomely attired in his sand colored turban, was working on his uncle's blueberry farm when his tractor overturned and pinned him under. As fate has it, men who ran to help him yanked him from under the machine and made sure his leg injuries were as extensive as possible. On the bright side, he was now accompanied by several family members who played with their cell phones a great deal.  Since we do not have one which works in Canada, we could be envious but decided to play nice and just nod pleasantly. A party atmosphere soon developed and I was looking for some Polish vodka but to no avail. Was it a hospital, or pub?  Later the mood sagged a bit after John and Dax were told to return the following day, and maybe again on Sunday. And on Monday. At least The Blueberry Man was admitted, which goes to show that you need to be dragged from under some heavy machinery first, just to make sure someone important will notice your dire need to have a really big surgery.

Back to October 1. While John is snoozing expectantly on his gurney (yes, they will not bump us off today! it is a go!) I am trying to get my internal GPS in order and see where we really are. As in any wilderness, we do not want to be caught not knowing our actual whereabouts, and with my husband of many moons (41 years, to be exact) somewhat incapacitated I must shoulder the GPS duties alone. Actually, we never use any GPS devices but John says it stands for Great Passionate Sex, and this we do have. And here is what I see: all kinds of wilderness landmarks, even some feeble trees and distant mountains slathered with fog, all easy to memorize and find in our still uncertain future. 

I return and find my husband flirting with the nurses. Great idea: he may get on their good side and they will rush to him whenever he winks. I like this.  And this is how he looks when he flirts with me. Yes, he does. Sweetly. Why do you think I stayed around for so long? 

As part of his flirting routine, John gives all ICU nurses a link to our website so they could entertain themselves instead of attending to patients. First thing first, beauty before the beast, nature calling, wolves howling, patients waiting. The head nurse has a bad cold, so she wraps herself in a warm hospital blankie and peeks at our pictures. Right now she focuses on my pictures of aspen trunks in the first snow near Yosemite. Maybe she will get better by looking at some fresh snow?  

In order to check the premises and make sure they are satisfactory for my fallen lover, I prowl silently and try not to wag my tail: this is, after all, an Intensive Care Until, pre-op section, and I may be incarcerated for my clearly predatory moves. 

Hey, this is good!  They have pillows galore in this joint, so if they bump us again we can just make ourselves a warm cozy nest on the floor, lined it with all these fluffy pillows, and smooch until they decide to operate on John's busted leg.

And remember: this is a true Canadian hospital, its beaver-approved western flagship with all its modern components, perched not far from the stormy Pacific and charging all Canadian residents nothing or just a mere pittance in comparison to what they charge us, proud Americans, who -- by golly -- will not agree to any national heath program in our own country, and therefore have to pay though our proud noses till they fall off or till we go broke. And besides their first-class medical care (which works great even when you get bumped off;  what's one or two days when you may emerge from this place in a much better shape than your old decrepit self?) the Canadians truly love and support their art.  I wander long corridors, jam-packed with color and imagination. There is an Inuit print from Cape Dorset, guarding the elevator and a bunch of mallard ducks exploding wetly from the second floor's wall.


An abstract study of courting feather colors of birds.. many birds. It appears this country does not only love its national rodents, but its feathery population as well. Maybe it even offers them a national health program? One pinched wing, and you can get treated by nurses who like snow and meet people who soar over fences, the way birds do, just better?  You can see me clearly communing with this lovely print. 

And please disregard the reflections which look like sneakers seen from above. They are actually sneakers seen from above: another ambitious installation put together by an artist who loves footwear. Disregard it: I tried every which way not to have this reflection in my frame but I failed.  Not the first time.

And while I am gallery hopping, John is flirting 

with his anesthesiologist, a lovely and attentive woman. She is also patient as John explains to her everything she needs to know about his body. I am sure this is also an integral part of the national health plan: listen to all these folks and reassure them with your undivided attention, even if you forget everything a few minutes later. They both agree on epidural instead of general. If only they would let me in with my camera while the surgery is in progress! I could distract them sufficiently to make an error, and then we could sue the hospital for all kinds of big bucks. But this is Canada: no suing. Stay this moment and  enjoy the lovely doc and her gentle ways. Amen. 

And... off we go to the OR, to meet a cold sharp knife. The patient is still smiling. Remember our GPS, darling

Minutes pass. I walk. Go to the Starbucks across the street to plug into its free W-Fi to get some messages of warm support from our friends. I see some rain. I check my watch. I think about the exploding mallards, Inuit ookpiks, and courting colors of birds. And of the many years stretching back all the way to our chance meeting in Wyoming, under the Grand Tetons, and a hitchhiking young man with a pack, who opened my Landrover's door and, seeing my cameras, said: another photographer? Yep. That's me. Now, in Vancouver, pacing. Then I am back on the second floor, past the mallards and all the rest of them.  

And -- yes! John is all done, smiling and wanting something he never eats: potato chips, now! Hey, you are not pregnant... But today all is possible. I have no choice in a small store nearby and get some nasty non-band chips, the low of the low, but he is happy. And wants to read all notes from our friends. And this is what he is doing. After his epidural he is not even sleepy. Spark. Smile. Good.

And because John is so happy with his nasty potato chips and all is well, his ICU nurse beams. 

I now see there is some flare in this frame but never mind.... who will even notice a stupid flare? This is Canada, a flare-less huge tract of land of swooshing trees and soaring mountains and hockey crazed people. How could anything go wrong here?

And poor Dax, 

The Fence Jumper?  There he is, next gurney over, before his surgery, all smiles, our future Wayne Gretzky. Dax came alone this time, so where is Papa? Well, Papa just had emergency stents put into his heart artery and he may come later... or so we all hope. And Mama is out of town. Boy alone. He wants a hug and I administer it as part of the Canadian national health programs.

  

But after his op, young Dax is not bouncy at all:  general anesthetic can be such a moo cow. At least Papa is back with us, his right wrist taped but alive. Good.

  Back to my hero but he is again busy with his clearly enchanted nurses. Here in Canada the only patients seem to be men. John, Dax, The Blueberry Man, Papa... And their attending physicians, including John's surgeon, epidural doc and almost all nurses are women. Nice, warm, sweet women. One nurse is checking John's Big Foot to see if he is getting any sensations back. He is not but seems to like the banana I kidnapped at Starbucks (for extra 5 cents, in addition to my coffee bill.)

  And then things get really serious before John is discharged.This is not exactly a riot act the nurse is reading but all the NOs and NEVERs and SHOULDNTs he and I need to memorize, implement and not question.  We try not to interrupt, which is one of our many bad habits.

And then it is time to go. Jacek, our wonderful new friend, will meet us downstairs. The Big Foot is truly impressive and John, artfully disheveled with his gown sliding off and the banana almost finished, is tired.

And so am I. But all will be well until John steps on another mossy old log resembling the one on Haida Gwaii he encountered two days ago, and his foot falls into another hidden hole armed with sharp teeth like a bear trap. Or I slip on the ice and shatter my lower leg bones again. Yes, we have done it all, and may do it again. You never know. For now, we are very lucky. So many good things happen to bring us safely here, have the surgery, and count on our friends in this part of the world. 

It could have been different.  John may have broken his leg during any of the forest walks we took this year, while being much further from any ER or an airport. 

The weather was not cold: if it were cold, he may have gone into shock and our friend Leiv who went ashore with John to do a spot of fishing, would have a hard time finding him in the thick old forest. 

If John were disabled by shock, Leiv would also have a hell of a time to bring him back to his Zodiac, and then load him onto a much taller sailboat, even with my help.  

But John, who told me he meditated to prevent shock after he fell and was swamped by pain, was able to crawl/walk back to the beach, so getting him to Queen Charlotte City and its small ER was done with relative ease. The diagnosis there was correct. The splint held his leg immobilized overnight, and pain pills helped him sleep at least some hours. 

Then a flight to Vancouver, a taxi to Vancouver General's ER, 5 hrs there, and a set of better X-rays and a more specific diagnosis which indicated he needed surgery.

Then two nights with Jacek and Sylvia, who offered their place and their bed without hesitation.

And since we needed to get our camper send to us via two ocean ferries, we were also lucky to have Gracie Flanagan from Haida Gwaii who, unafraid of all the hustle, offered to send it south for us.

And lucky to have our old friend Peter Moosbrugger from Vancouver Island, who will soon get us under his wing in Comox until John is better.  We met Peter in Newfoundland 15 years ago, and we fell into a deep friendship with him -- and his wife Karen -- right away. 

Luck, luck, luck....

This morning I found a note by our door in a small hostel we moved into after the surgery. It came from a young couple from San Diego, who lived in another room and gave me a lift to a grocery store. It said:

Just wanted to say

it was nice to

meet you both

good luck with the leg!

Tom and Katie

And among many wishes, encouragements and recommendations we found these from our caring home docs:

Tell John to wiggle his toes. It will assist with circulation. Watch him within arms' length when he stands up. Orthostatic Hypotension can cause fainting. 

and:

So happy to hear John is feeling better and on the mend.  That's why I love orthopedics.  Brief illness (usually), pain that passes rapidly and hopefully good results.

and:

The pain from the surgery is expected to taper off quickly and John should have minimal or no pain at all in a few days.  In fact, if the ankle starts hurting again next week for no obvious reason, it may suggest that the cast has become too tight due to swelling around the ankle, and that J needs to keep the leg elevated more.

and this, from Mary Oliver, a poem John found by searching under "pain poem"

I want to write something

so simply

about love

or about pain

that even

as you are reading

you feel it

and as you read

you keep feeling it

and though it be my story

it will be common,

though it be singular

it will be known to you

so that by the end

you will think—

no, you will realize—

that it was all the while

yourself arranging the words,

that it was all the time

words that you yourself,

out of your heart

had been saying.

Hey, we may not do better next time when we fall into bear trap-like holes or slip on the ice, but the support poured all over us felt like the best melted dark chocolate (studded with sour cherries) and could not be improved. 

Love and thanks to Leiv and Gracie,  Jacek and Sylwia,  Peter, David and Gayle, and John and Gerry, our first responders near and far.

©Yva Momatiuk