Some friends of mine arrived in town from San Francisco for just a few days to check on a remodel they are doing on their condo. When they called and invited me to join them at one of the many beach clubs that dot the shore line along Los Muertos Beach, I was delighted. It had been weeks since I had been to the beach and I did not want to be whiter than my friend from Minnesota who was arriving in a week. It was not one of my favorite spots, but I was looking forward to spending the day with my friends.
During the season you have to reserve the chaise lounges, but even with three chairs, you only get one small umbrella so only one person can get away from the sun. So I took one in the sun and after unpacking my beach bag with all the stuff that I deem necessary for a day at the beach. I laid down on the chaise, but found the back was broken or something. Why I did not just call for another one, I do not know. Instead I reached back to try to steady it and got my finger caught between one of the metal joints. I screamed and my friend could not seem to figure out what was wrong, but finally I got him to raise the back and release my finger. It was smashed and cut all the way across to the bone. Blood was shooting everywhere so someone brought me some napkins to wrap it in. Then the owner (or manager) came running over and said he had a first aid kit in the little hut at the back. He wanted to pour alcohol over it, but when I carefully unwrapped the napkins and saw the gaping wound, I knew I needed more than a first aid kit. I needed a doctor to stitch it up (besides I knew I could not stand the pain of pouring alcohol over it).
My friends wanted to accompany me to the hospital, but I did not want to spoil their day at the beach. It was my finger, not my toe so I was sure I could walk the ten blocks or so to the hospital. I certainly knew where it was having been there so many times. I think that I have been to the emergency room four times, so I just walked through the lobby and pushed my way through doors (dripping blood everywhere). Of course they wanted to see it, but unwrapping was painful and more blood was pouring out. I told them that before anything, I wanted a pain killer. He did not speak much English so I was not sure he understood, but he did say, "In the butt?" I said where ever, I just want to pain to stop. I do not know if he was a real nurse or not, but he seemed to want a doctor to give me the shot (or maybe he did not have access to the drugs).
It seemed forever before a real doctor arrived and he seemed to understand and left the room (I guess to get drugs) I waited some more while they tried to get me to lie down on one of the gurneys, but I preferred to stand where I could drop the blood in a bucket. There was one other man in the room who seemed to be almost comatose. But some men arrived who looked like bomberos (firemen) and transferred the man to a portable gurney and hauled him out the door. Maybe they were moving him somewhere by ambulance. I thought I would then get more attention, but all the nurses left the room when the man did. Finally the doctor came back with a syringe and gave me the shot. I do not know what it was, but I know it was not morphine (the pain continued). The doctor disappeared again
He reappeared with a package which he unwrapped on a table next to me. I could not look at it. I again told him I needed something for the pain. He said he would give me a shot in the finger, but it would hurt for a while. It was excruciating pain, and then he gave me another shot. The finger went numb and he started to stitch it up. This went on so long the anesthetic wore off and I could feel the needle going through the skin. He said, just a few more (it took twelve stitches) He was so slow I figured he must have skipped sewing class in medical school. After he was done he wrapped it and put a sort of sock on it. I held my arm up and blood poured down. He had to take it all off and re wrap it and told me to keep pressure on it. I have to change it every day.
He said that the finger should be all right as long as I keep water away from it for ten days. He did tell me that should it turn black that I should come back, otherwise he did not need to see me for a week. BLACK ?? TEN DAYS !! He said that I would need some drugs (tell me !) He could get them from the hospital or I could go to a pharmacy. I knew from my last experience what they charge so I told him I would get them at the pharmacy. I went to the lobby to the girl to check out Strangely, she did not seem to remember me (all old fat white haired men look alike to them), I picked up the bill and told her I would return with cash the next day. She frowned and picked up the phone. Who was she calling, Security? I told her that last year I walked out owing 180,000 pesos, so I think she can trust me for 2,200 (about $170.00) I explained that I had been at the beach and had no identification with me, nor did have have 2,000 pesos. After dropping up my beach bag at home and picking up more cash, I went to the pharmacy and spent another 600 pesos.
That night I took a sleeping pill (along with several glasses of scotch) and slept for eleven hours. Doing almost anything with one hand is difficult. I discovered that a plastic bag secured with a rubber band worked pretty well. Later I bought some rubber kitchen gloves. Changing the bandage was another challenge. The dried blood caused the gauze to stick to the stitches. I had some spray on antibiotic but it still did not seem to work. Finally I managed to pry it off, but the wound opened and it started to bleed again. At least it was red and not black.
Having successfully changed the bandage for several days (no more blood), I thought it would be just fine. The following week, I went back to the hospital. After at least an hour wait, the doctor told me that it should be another five days before he could take out the stitches. When I went back again, he removed all but two or three. He was afraid that it was still too soon and the wound might reopen. So he said to come back in three more days. I asked why it was taking so long to heal. He said that I smoke and drink too much and it depletes the oxygen in my blood. (Well, nothing we can do about that ! ) When I complained about how painful the removal of the stitches was (he had a nurse do it), he said maybe I should take a pain killer an hour before. "YES YES"
Then he asked if I had any Ibuprofen. When I talk pain killers, I am talking about morphine and he is talking about an aspirin ! Clearly, we are not communicating.
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