The Hospital

When I first tell people that I broke my kneecap they are usually sympathetic. When I tell people I broke it riding my bike down the concrete stairs on the campus of the local university, they are less sympathetic. I was riding down the stairs when the chain slipped. The bike fell away beneath me and my right knee slapped the concrete steps.

I did not really give the accident much thought. I bounced up and thought, “Man, I hope no one saw that.” I pushed my bike to the bottom of the stairs and remounted. The knee hurt, but I thought it was just a bad bruise. I rode home, took a couple of aspirin and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. The leg kept throbbing. I woke up around 5;00 and the knee was the size of a muskmelon and covered with a nasty bruise. I could stand up, but the leg would not bear any weight.

Shizuko called a taxi to take me to the hospital emergency room. Everyone has an emergency room story where they sit and sit. This story is no different. I sat and sat and finally after an hour, I hobbled myself over to the desk and asked if someone had called my name. I was not really an emergency. It had been eight hours since the accident and I was not going to die, still when the receptionist told me point blank that they had just forgotten about me, I was a little surprised. She apologized. It was not to be the last apology of the day.

About ten minutes later two orderlies appeared. They asked what the problem was and I explained that I thought I had broken my leg. They suggested X-rays would be useful in determining whether I had broken my leg. I concurred. They asked me to follow them and walked off. I stood and promptly fell against the wall. The orderlies looked back to see what was keeping me. I was trying to hop along, keeping one hand on the wall.
The nurse at the desk, in that voice that seems the unique talent of middle-aged Japanese women speaking to young men, said, “He’s got a broken leg. Get a wheelchair.” The ‘you daft gits’ was implied, but clear.

The orderlies hustled off, after apologizing, and returned with a wheelchair. I was soon seated and being pushed down the hallway. All too quickly the ride ended and we came to a doorway. The doorway looked liked doors to a kitchen in a restaurant. Two doors hung on hinges that swung either way. Unfortunately, the space opened by the doors was less than the width of the wheelchair.

I had to stand, hop through the doorway while the orderlies folded up the wheelchair and carried it through the doorway. This happened three times before we reached the staircase. The orderlies looked at me expectantly. After a moment they apologized. I did not understand. Finally, they explained. The X-ray room was on the third floor. I would have to walk. They apologized.

“Where is the elevator?” I asked. This was the largest hospital in Kumamoto.
They apologized and then explained that the hospital was currently being renovated and that the elevators were unavailable. They apologized.

I stood, took one step and sat down heavily on the stairs. I pulled myself up, one step at a time, to the third floor. It took me about 20 minutes and by the time we reached the third floor, I was covered with sweat.

Back in the wheelchair, I was pushed the 100meters down the hall to the X-ray room. Once in the room, I had to hop over to the X-ray table and pull myself up another step, before climbing onto the table itself.

After X-rays, the doctor came to see me. He seemed competent and offered me two choices – surgery or the cast. I was terrified of surgery at a hospital without an elevator and opted for six weeks in the cast.

I still don’t know if I made the right decision. The cast is off, but my leg is weak and now I have a tendency to stand flat-footed, which makes my back hurt. I now have one of those knees that hurts when it rains. And instead of it being from some old football injury or combat in the Gulf War, it is just from getting drunk and riding my bike down some stairs like a jerk.