Captain Pike's Ship Log II

There is a sort of sad, nervousness among the men on the spinal cord injury floor of the hospital on Friday nights. We're mostly youngish men with some adventure still left in us. Most of us would probably rather be enjoying the arts, some music, a show or just cavorting in downtown Boston. But instead, we are facing major losses in the use of our bodies.

I think it was three or four of us that were kind of racing up and down the hallway in an impromptu drag race of wheelchairs. I was about to dodge to the right of the fellow ahead of me, about to make my move on the inside, when suddenly, my wheelchair lurched to the right and I came abruptly to a tipping halt. Try as I might, I couldn't move, neither forward nor backward. Two nurses suddenly appeared looking shocked, and coming my way. By the way they were looking at me, the direction of their eyes, made me begin to realize what had happened. I had run my foot over! The whole of my left foot was jammed: the bottom against the hard metal underbelly of the wheelchair, the top rolled firmly against by the left front caster wheel. It took one nurse to lift the heavy wheelchair slightly off of its left wheels, another to pry loose my foot.

One of the nurses insisted on having a look at my foot. After getting my shoe off, it was easy to see something wasn't right. My foot began to throb. The on-call doctor was summoned. I was pretty sure my foot was okay -- the ankle was all red , to be sure, but I hadn't heard any snapping or anything. It was probably 9 p.m. by the time the doctor came up on the floor. After he figured out which foot was to be inspected, he was gravely concerned about how my ankle seemed to tip over to the outside. I tried to tell him this was that foot's tendency since my accident -- the accident that broke my neck. He wouldn't hear anything about it, and began to write an order for an x-ray. You see, when you're in the hospital already, nothing's taken lightly -- especially if you have good insurance.

It's a funny thing about a rehabilitation hospital, it is not uncommon that they do not have x-ray staff on board during the evenings. Will we wait for tomorrow? No sir-ee. It turns out that this hospital's parent is Mass General, so, off we go. The doctor left, assuring me that the ambulance crew would be arriving shortly. After you've had a major spinal cord injury, you tend to just go along with things. You, or at least I, acquiesce more easily. Hey, I've got nothing to do tonight anyway, why not take a ride to Boston, visit a new hospital?

A couple of friendly fellows showed up in a bit with a clattering stretcher. I think their names may have been Chris and Mark, but they may as well have been Ernie and Bert. Bert was tall, very capable and to the point -- the "straight guy" and he seems a little dismayed at Ernie's tendency towards horsing around. Ernie, on the other hand, was just having fun with life as he probably did at work or at home, or any old time that you might chance to observe him. My hospital room was pretty small to begin with. My roommate and I are both over 6 feet tall, which means both of our beds have an extender on them. Add a few contraptions for dealing with quadriplegics and you have a pretty busy place. Try to imagine it, I have the "window" bed, as opposed to the "hallway" bed. Happily humming, Ernie has no problem dragging the stretcher across my roommates legs, all the while, Bert is trying to lift the stretcher up, minimizing the damage, to accommodate Ernie's flip-ness. Then one magic word, and the rolling legs come flailing down. Next, a couple of clattering adjustments and they have the stretcher right alongside my bed. These guys are amazing -- they used the sheet underneath me to snap me over onto the stretcher, poof, and it's done! I have noticed since I have been unable to move anything from my chest down, that I have a newfound fear of falling. My ability to sense a failing balance is undaunted, whereas doing anything about it is utterly beyond me. I know what I'm falling over and I can't do a thing about it.

It is always a concern for any of us to see a fellow patient being scurried off in a stretcher, from his room. After giving my a reassuring goodbyes to my fellow wheelchair jockeys, I lie back and remember my many trips to the O.R. while in the intensive care ward. I remember the morphine medicated, whisking's off -- silently, swiftly down the highly skilled passageways towards surgery -- supine and seeing my plight reflected in large chrome hemispheres in the ceiling at hallway junctions. Down, down, down among the hushed tones and hairnets of expertise -- these are the finely honed folks who seem to love their job the most. In the arena of the O.R., I notice the odd affectation of the superbly adept. Personal diversity seems the right of the highly skilled artisan -- and here, the medium is flesh. The almost lyrically speaking anesthetist, is dead serious and wears a tweedy Bird hairnet. Or, the very classic surgeon doctor-looking fellow with the dumb bell ring in his nose. The sense is, they've done this before and they've done it right. When one of these people tell you to start counting backward from 100, you start counting backward.

So, while the view lying on my back, flying down the hallways may look the same, my conveyors and our destination is very different today. Before I know it, were bursting through the backdoor and we're outside! What a place -- outside; first underneath the shelter of the illuminated overhang of the ambulance carport, and then, a cool gentle rain tickles at my face. The full moon comes into view above the John Hancock Building and it comes to me all at once: this is Friday the 13th. Traffic is heavy around North Station, the Rolling Stones are playing tonight in what used to be called Boston Garden. It seems odd, in a way, that Ernie is driving and Bert is back here with me in the back of the ambulance. Bert is interested in Maine, he is reading my chart and tells me that his sister lives in Maine. I feel us round a corner and the sound of many nearby tires is amplified by the wet pavement. From my view out the back window, upward, I see us turning on Blossom Street. Several indistinguishable figures hurry past the rear of the ambulance as we remain stopped in traffic. Moving again and now turning we stop again this time at Mass General.

Massachusetts General Hospital is the largest hospital in the state. Plans for the hospital began way back in 1810. A lot of construction went on during the middle 1800s. As my supine tour continues, I see the majestic new addition rising high above the older granite columns and intricate cornice work. I am told that the same architect is responsible for both this new section and the moonlit John Hancock Building -- that great green glass extrusion into the sky. Entering the automatic doors of the emergency room, I noticed a bunker full of wheelchairs -- more wheelchairs than I have ever seen, 50 or more, all empty, clustered together, waiting.

I have been wheeled up against a wall in the emergency area. There is a faint smell of vomit here. A young blonde woman, also on a stretcher is complaining incoherently. I can only see the back of her head, she has disheveled, darkened roots. Ernie and Bert raise my head a bit using the clockwork of the stretcher and verify I am comfortable. I am quite at ease now and can look around fairly well. Ernie and Bert disappear with my paperwork into a windowed room where an orderly and a large Haitian woman are having a discussion. Nobody here knows I am paralyzed. Several other people are also in stretchers up against other walls. I rotate my right wrist so that I look less handicapped. My right wrist is the only thing outside of the blankets other than my head. Since my injury, a thing called "tone" causes my right hand to curl up oddly. It reminds me of a dead bird's foot. As long as my fingers are curled downward, so that my wrist is up, as it is now, it doesn't look so strange. A nurse or doctor emerges from double doors to a hallway and begins to wheel off a Spanish looking man who has been waiting. He gives me a look that says "it's about time". The Haitian woman becomes more emphatic -- she didn't hit anyone until after she was insulted, she insists. I feel myself listing slightly to the right. The blonde woman is quiet now, she breathes deeply and heavily. Two EMTs bring in another stretcher. They stop alongside of me and one speaks privately with the police officer that came in with them. The gender of this person is unclear because of a formidable neck brace. I smell an alcoholic smell. It is kind of a vanilla like smell, like a day old drunk. The remaining EMT glances first at me, then my hand. He nods. I feel like I may be falling over -- just tipping too much to the right. If I can hook my left hand in the rail, I might be able to pull myself back up right.

Ernie and Bert are leaving now, Ernie gives me a little theatrical curtsy as he passes by. Soon, a pleasant, small woman verifies my identity and attaches a second bracelet to my left arm. I feel sad and a little afraid now. I mean, they don't know, do they, that I can't get up from this stretcher now if I wanted to? I guess maybe no one in a stretcher can just jump right up. But I'm not like the other people here. Even if they fix what's wrong that brought me here, I still won't be able to get up. Somehow, it seems like a funny situation -- no matter what they do, I will still be broken. I think I'm blending in pretty well. I'm just another person on a stretcher in the emergency room.