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By Scott Farrell
Recently, I took a trip to my father's home in Idaho in order
to become severely injured. Well, that wasn't the stated purpose
of the trip. My wife and I had intended to visit my father for
a weekend of winter recreation - we just got a little more "wreck" that "reation" on
the trip.
My father, who just celebrated his 70th birthday, is a bit out
of the ordinary. At an age when most people are moving into planned
retirement communities near Phoenix and discovering that they have
a favorite brand of laxative, my father has just build his own
log cabin in a secluded valley near Yellowstone National Park,
and has taken up snowboarding. He offered to take us on a snowmobile
problem with this goal is that I don't think I am as healthy and
active as my father is today. And if I keep following his example,
by the time I am his age I will have been dead for at least 15
years.
I did not, however, allow any sense of either caution of self-preservation
to inhibit me in this snowmobiling endeavor. I assumed that, by
taking some time to step outside of my little Southern California,
urbanized, Starbucks-drinking comfort zone, I might learn something
about myself. I was quite correct about this.
I learned I was an idiot.
A 14 H.P. Open Sleigh
So there we are, on our way to the Continental Divide on a trio
of snowmobiles: my dad, my wife, and I. We were enjoying the sights
of a winter wonderland, oblivious to the fact that outside our
16 layers of Gore-Tex, the air temperature was an invigorating
-32 degrees. I was scooting down a hillside, and, just to see what
it was like to sled through virgin snow, I ventured off the beaten
trail.
Well, let me tell you what it is like - it is like taking this
newsletter into your car, driving out onto your local interstate
highway, then duct-taping this sheet of paper over your face as
you drive along. The snowmobile immediately began to assault me
with a barrage of snow and ice like a demon-possessed Zamboni,
reducing my visibility to zero in a matter of about .0038 seconds.
Because of this, I failed to see the one small obstacle on the
hillside ahead of me: a 7,000 foot pine tree. As you know if you
have spent any time watching such high-quality television programs
as America's Funniest Home Injury Videos, this is exactly where
my snowmobile headed as soon as I was out of control.
And, with a crunching sound that only 300 pounds of plastic and
aluminum can make, my snowmobile came to an abrupt halt, flinging
me headlong at 40 M.P.H. into the winter wonderland.
After some amount of bouncing and rolling and flailing around,
I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill, buried in snow up to
my armpits. I looked around, and, to my relief, didn't see signs
of blood gushing out of any portion of my body, which was an immediate
relief. Then I thought to myself, "When I was 18, I'd have gotten
up and walked away from this without so much as a scratch. I wonder
if I can still.
As I tried to push myself up out of the snow, I noticed a kind
of stinging in my left hand. I struggled to my feet, and gently
removed my glove, hoping that I'd find my wrist was sort of bruised
or scraped up. What I found, in fact was that my hand was sort
of backwards with all kinds of weird lumps and bumps where there
weren't any before.
And I thought to myself, "Ooooh, I'm not 18 any more."
Home, Home On the O.R.
So, my dad, my wife, and I took another snowmobile trip, this
time with me riding on the back of my wife's snowmobile, through
the winter wonderland to the hospital in Rexburg. There, I met
Dr. Lee, an osteopathic surgeon, who immediately began to examine
my arm with all the delicacy and grace a carpenter would use to
examine a cabinet door which had come off it hinges.
Dr. Lee was a big ol' cowboy kinda guy who, I suspect, thought
I was basically a wimp for making such a fuss over a messed-up
hand. If Dr. Lee had hurt his arm while out ropin' dogies, I think
he would have held the cow down with his good hand and rest the
broken bone with his teeth. I got the feeling he was a little unsure
why I bothered coming to the hospital for such a minor problem
when I could still move a majority of my fingers.
Regardless, if he thought I was some kind of sissified, Southern
California softy, he was polite about it. He explained that, in
fact my wrist was broken and dislocated, and he told me how he
was going to fix both problems - a procedure which involved five
little Chinese finger-traps, a 25 lb. Sandbag, and a Makita cordless
drill.
Fortunately, it also involved a respectable amount of anesthesia.
He wheeled me into the operating room while he assembled his surgical
team and charged up the battery in the Makita drill. Generally,
I am a proponent of the philosophy that the patient should take
an active part in his or her own health care. By this time, however,
I was feeling the effect of a significant amount of pain medication,
which did little to enhance my normally outstanding sense of tact
and diplomacy with a bunch of guys who were about to use power
tools on my body.
"So, you guys are going to operate on me?"
All of the nurses and assistants agreed.
"Okay," I said as the anesthesiologist held up the mask, "and
you know we're here to fix a broken wrist? Nobody's here to do
any amputations, right?"
"Don't worry. We'll get you back in working order," Dr. Lee said
with a laugh, trying to reassure me. "What do you do for a living?"
I knew he didn't really care what I did for a living; he was just
trying to put me at ease until the anesthesia began to work. I
also knew, however, that this was my one chance to get the attention
of the surgical staff, to make sure that they were all alert and
awake and paying attention and not letting their minds stray to
issues (like their mortgage refinances or getting their BMW's back
from the mechanic) during the operation on my hand. So, as the
anesthesiologist slipped his needle into my arm rather painlessly
(although at that point he probably could have slipped a residential
lawn mower into my arm rather painlessly), I said the eight words
that I hoped would give me the best chance of waking up with all
my limbs still attached and in working order:
"I write a column! for a medical! newsletter!
Zzzz.
Painful Lessons
You'll be glad to learn that the operation was a success. I woke
up several hours later were a sever hangover and two drywall screws
holding my wrist together. The doctor explained that he wanted
to keep me in the hospital through the night, because if there
was any swelling, they would need to get me back into surgery right
away, in order to amputate.
No, actually I think he wanted to be able to reduce any swelling
before it restricted the circulation, but with as much anesthesia
as I'd had, I wasn't entirely sure at the time, nor did I particularly
care.
After snoozing away most of the afternoon and evening, I spent
a lot of time awake that night once the drugs wore off. I thought
about the crash, and I began to realize just how lucky I'd been.
There are plenty of people involved in such incidents every year
who don't walk away from their landings, who wind up in wheelchairs
or on respirators as a result of their high-speed mishaps in a
winter wonderland.
As my wife and I were sitting together that night, in the lonely
hours of the morning that you only see when there's some kind of
tragedy in your life, I wonder what might have happened if good
fortune had not been with me on that snowmobile.
Turning down the volume on the Star Trek re-run we were watching,
I asked her, "If I'd gotten killed out there instead of just breaking
my wrist, would people have thought, 'What a stupid way to die?'"
She looked at me with that look she gets when I attempt some form
of significant home repair, and said, "I'm not sure what anybody
else would think … but if it really matters to you, I think you'd
have spent your last moments out in the beauty of nature, having
a great time, surrounded by the people you love. It's sure a lot
better than working yourself into a heart attack sitting in front
of your computer. If you gotta go, I can't really think of a better
way."
Hmm. Pretty smart, that lady. I suppose that's why I married her.
So, my wrist will heal, the cast will come off, I'll go into therapy
and eventually be back in working order. All things considered,
I'll probably do it again. (The snowboarding, that is; not the
crashing part.) Until then, I've come to realize that there are
times in life when tragedy - larger or small - helps us separate
what's really important from what's just distraction. Everyone
should have an opportunity to re-evaluate the focus of their lives
from time to time; I just hope most people do so without the help
of a 7,000-foot pine tree.
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