In 1991, I skied the front steps and broke my right leg in three places. The doctors told me that I would have terrible arthritis when I got older. They were right. As the arthritis resulting from the injuries got worse, my ability to walk became more and more limited. Braces, drugs, physical therapy, and acupuncture were useless. Ankle replacement was the key.
The ankle replacement was to be done by one of the best doctors for ankle replacements in Seattle. It was to be done at the hospital in which he operates and was scheduled at least two months in advance. On October 23, the date upon which Bishop Ussher has determined was “The Day of Creation,” the birthday of the world, I appeared at the hospital, crutches in hand, to have my ankle replaced. My ability to walk was to be reborn.
After the check-in, the fun started. Three or four anesthesiologists surrounded me. They all wore face masks and robes. They were Elizabethan as they started regaling me with all the various options that were available. I could only think of the witches from Macbeth. “Double, double, toil and trouble. Eye of Newt and Toe of Frog.” They described the potential potions, and I selected mine.
What happened next strains my credulity. Potions were administered, and I was rolled off to surgery and to a new world - created by modern medicine.
I awoke in the recovery room. There were hoses hooked to my leg, pumping the nerve block and others to the arm, pumping in other things. There were electric cords attached to parts of me and hooked into other electronic machines. As I returned to consciousness, someone, I believe an assistant doctor, came over and said, “We don’t have a room for you. We’re taking you to something garbled,” but to this day, I think of it as the “Resettlement Camp.” This was after more than two months of preparation.
Instead of a hospital room, I was deposited in the Resettlement Camp. There were no walls, only drapes. It was like camping. I was in an indoor tent. When the curtains were all closed, it was exceedingly hot and stuffy. I concluded that I was destined for Hell. The exceedingly high temperatures in the tents were simply part of the training camp. I had the curtains opened.
It was then that the most fascinating part of my experience began. As I lay in my front row bed with the curtain opened to the world, a parade of characters, interesting people, the wild and the weird, all passed in front of me.
First, there was a large Sikh gentleman with an even larger gun hung on his right hip. He was following a man through the Camp who was wearing an intricately carved set of bracelets on his ankles. Upon closer inspection, I concluded that the bracelets were joined by chains and that they were, in fact, shackles. It began to dawn upon me that this was not going to be a normal hospital stay.
He was followed by another large gentleman with an even larger gun. He was following another man with bracelets. They, too, were joined by chains, and it dawned upon me that they were manacles. Note I discerned manacles at the very beginning just as I was beginning to wake up. My brain was turning on. It began to dawn on me that I was in the Jail Ward. I concluded it was necessary to make sure the correct name was posted at the foot of the bed. I wanted to go home, not to the King County Jail.
I finally had the courage to ask one of the officers if I was, in fact, in the jail ward. He smiled and said, “No, this isn’t the jail ward, but whenever we bring the prisoners to this hospital, they put them wherever we can, and there are several other people here. The hospital is very full.” I went to sleep that night knowing that I was protected by at least a half-dozen officers of the King County Jail Guards. Regardless, I made sure that the name on the foot of my bed was not changed.
Sleeping pills can help get you to sleep, but they can’t keep you there. I was awakened during the night by a screaming banshee. It truly had to be a demon from some nefarious place coming to claim one of its own. Unfortunately for me, it was in the next tent, and there was only one curtain protecting me. I was sad for the person being attacked, and I expected a response to this terrible demon. Training camp was about to become a live fire exercise.
There was nothing I could do. I was still hooked up to nerve blocks, and while I have read books about demons, that is the limit of my experience. I was even sorrier because I had heard the gentleman, whom I now call the “Witch Doctor,” speaking during the day. He spoke with mellifluous tones—think Richard Burton or Patrick Stewart doing Shakespearean—and an incredible presence. Whether he said anything at all rational, I could not tell.
The camp was dark and getting cold. I finally got up enough courage to press the nurse call button. It was then that I learned that the screams of the damned were, in fact, merely the terrestrial effects of a bad case of sleep apnea. All the nurses were in druidic attire. The robes were iridescent in appearance. What an exciting experience. They were here to save me from the demons. They also brought me a blanket. Who knew that a 21st-century ankle replacement would bring me into contact with so many ancient religious orders?
In the morning, I woke up to see “The Grey Lady” walking by my tent. She passed in front of my tent at least four or six times. She can best be described as wearing a gray silk dress that would have been fashionable when Nellie Bly resided in the Bellevue Hospital and wrote “Ten Days in a Madhouse,” which forever changed the treatment of the mentally ill. Her presence brought an air of mystery to our camp. I never found out whether she was a patient, visitor, administrator, or spirit. I prefer to believe her to be a terrestrial spirit.
Eventually, I was liberated from my bed and moved to the knee scooter. I got to roll around the camp. I was amazed at the manner in which other tents were decorated. Mine was drab, with only the bed and associated medical and mobility devices. Others had chairs, what appeared to be picnic coolers, and all the conveniences of home. Many had families spending time with their sick relatives.
It was during these rolls that I met the Witch Doctor. He was a wizened old man with a long, straight white beard. I did wish that I could leave my CPAP machine for him. It was also during these perambulations that I saw the person who looked more like John F. Kennedy than anyone I have ever seen before or since.
He was rolled into the Resettlement Camp, probably from the emergency room. Personally, I was shocked when my barber raised the price of my haircut to $25. This man had a haircut for which I would gladly pay $500. Even after being in the emergency room, every hair was in place. I see a physical trainer. I think he had a hair trainer. Whatever happened, his hair was in place. I saw him several hours later as he strolled down the camp toward the restrooms. He, too, was accompanied by a servant, again, probably an orderly. What was amazing to me was that he was now in hospital garb, but it was tailored to fit him. How can they do that?
It was then time to leave. At this point, I had a wheelchair, crutches, the knee scooter and other baggage. I envisioned the hospital equivalent of “Wagon Train” or “Death Valley Days” sponsored by 20 Mule Team Borax. Instead, I got the ride of my life.
Before checking out, it was necessary to go to the Outpatient Pharmacy to get the drugs prescribed for me to take home. I went by wheelchair. I had as, my guide and pusher, a young Asian woman familiar with the route and protocols. It was a trip over the river and through the woods to the Outpatient Pharmacy, where my prescription was not ready. This infuriated my guide because it had been ordered to be ready. We had to wait. This infuriated her even more.
Thanks to her presence, it was placed next on the list, and we exited shortly thereafter. My guide did not understand why, but it was clear to me. If we took too long, she would have to explain why. This would result in her boss’s call to someone who would then call the pharmacist’s supervisor. Much better to just get it done now.
After the drugs were tendered, we left—back past the Zambezi riverbank, through the graveyard of all elephants, and up the elevator. The moral of this story is this: When traveling in unknown territory, it is always better to take a guide. The guide will tell you the most direct way to get where you are going, keep you from making eye contact with the ferocious Juju Beans, and keep you from going down the wrong pathway.
In short, I met all sorts of dedicated and interesting people, had strange potions administered to me, and came to conclusions about health care.
In the final analysis, we all get sick. We all need medical care. When you get stuck in a resettlement camp with John Kennedy and the Witch Doctor, the point is clear. It is time to stop caterwauling about who is going to pay or who is entitled. It is time to solve the problem.
