No, this was not me.
The Kid Story continues as of April 2011. Little Fred climbed a tree in my garden (Ted is my other cat). You could still hold them in one hand.
I decided to get him out and climbed the tree. After a small struggle we both landed simultaneously in the schoolyard behind my garden. I had a crushed hip and Fred was taking care of me.
It started to rain and I shit my pants from misery. I shouted for help and then, and then, eh, eh, along came Jones.
The whole medicare locomotive came over me. This is a story in several chapters.
I was lucky. In December 2011, I just renewed my medicare-insurance. I was not insured for several years.
I hadn't seen a medic for 30+ years. The last time was my student-doctor, when I caught a VD from The Redlight District. I hated medics.
I still don't love them. But sometimes you need them. Or else, this tree-story could have been my chapter 11. So, Go Go Obama!
Boys and girls, all listen to Uncle Harry: CONDOMS, CONDOMS, CONDOMS. It's so embarrassing to see your medic with a VD. Not mentioning AIDS here.
Nowadays they come in different sizes and tastes. Real fun. Just Google and order. Five clicks at the most. That's also what I like about Doutzen Kroes.
She is a Dutch super-sexy super-model for Victoria and also an ambassador for safe-sex. Take care, have fun, God bless you.
I was a bit drunk (of course) and a bit numb. My neighbor heard me and called the ambulance. I was lying there for 20 or 30 minutes. Nice response.
My neighbor took care of my kids and I was taken care of by the medics. "Can we cut your pants?". "Yes, please do." I was in agony. That was the last thing I remember before I arrived in the hospital.
Later I heard that there were about 20 police officers on the spot. Probably students. Not unusual but I have seen none of them.
In the ambulance I got a lot of morphine. That made me more numb. I still can remember the first minutes in the hospital. A guy and a girl in green outfits hanging over me.
Dentist lamps shining in my face. It felt like being abducted by aliens. They drilled a pin through my knee. It should carry 40 pounds of weight to pull
my thigh-bone from my hip-bone. I woke up with a very friendly medic at my bed. I had some pain with coughing. I got some more morphine.
The Academic Medical Center (AMC) is a top-notch hospital in Amsterdam. I had a room for my own. Great caring. They even had a pain-department that checked my pain-levels.
I could even dose my own morphine - up to a certain level. Your ego is thoroughly deconstructed when have to shit in a pan. I was bound to the bed. My kids were with my sister.
They had to break some wood to get Fred out of his hiding place. The kids are very OK now.
On arrival they put me through a full MRI body scan. That's a new method instead of taking X-rays. That's the international standard for heavily wounded persons.
Heavily wounded (by definition) is, that you can't walk on your own. I felt a bit bruised. Nothing serious, back home in two weeks. That was a miscalculation.
It took me about a year to heal completely.
The real operation was a week later. Hospitals were my worst nightmare.
But I got some very nice looking assistants at my bed to check my condition. Not good, not bad.
It's an academic hospital, so sometimes you see a whole class of students at your bed. Not an unpleasant sight.
The master-surgeon was pleased with my skinny body. I'm almost underweight.
I had to take my false teeth out and was driven to the operation room. Preperation was all.
I can clearly remember that event. There were at least six persons there. All in their alien green uniforms.
"Gas? check", "Knives? check", "Drills? check", "Towels? check", "Body-bag? check". I got a gas-mask on my face and slowly faded away.
When I woke up from the operation, there was no medic at my bed.
I thought I was in the office again and called "Hello John" to a by-passer. Faint memories. Great memories.
There was this big jolly Afro-guy who criss-crossed me in my bed to all the other departments.
I must think very deep. There were about six needles and tubes in my body. In the end the medics couldn't find a decent spot in by vains anymore.
- one for the morphine
- one for the urine
- one for the some tasty food fluid
- one for some vitamin fluid
- one for the operation-wound liquids
- one for the money
- two for the show
My left middle-finger was broken. A free extra bonus from the fall from the tree. We only noticed it after a few days.
They didn't spot it on the MRI scan. That first scan was a course scan. Later on they did two more detailed scans of my hip.
The broken-bone guy was a bit jumpy (I met him later on) but the sunday-girl-crew made a great big bandage, up to my elbow.
I was pissed, because I couldn't roll any cigarettes anymore.
The medics found out that I was a heavy smoker. At first I had no problems with that. But then they gave me a nicotine-plaster.
I instantly urged for a cigarette. So I ripped of the nicotine-plaster. After a week or so after the operation, I asked for a wheelchair.
Lying in bed all day was boring. My right leg was still lame and my condition was low. They called me "motivated". I was actually looking for a smoke.
I criss-crossed (heavy breathing) through the AMC. I even did some e-mailing in the internet cafe. The AMC is really big and a little village on its own.
I must thank all my visitors. I got lots of cards and flowers and clean underwear. But most important were the cigarettes.
After a few days I now could criss-crosss in my wheelchair to the smoking-spot. My sister (a frantic anti-smoker) helped me rolling a cigarette.
I still had this bandage on my left hand.
A good friend brought me a four pond book about Elvis Presley. I'm a fan of early Elvis.
The irony goes that he was forbidden to shake his hips on TV and I was lying there with a crushed hip.
I'm not sure if he understood this black humor, but I liked it very much.
Much later I saw an X-ray of my hip. I counted 14 screws. OMG. They never told me.
The medics always said that it was "pretty serious". What the f*ck means that.
After three weeks in hospital, I did another two months in a re-validation-home.
Bed, wheelchair, Zimmerman-frame (looprekje), crutches, walking-stick (so cool).
But that's another story.
When I got back home again, after three months, my kids were still as lovely as always.
My sister took good care of them. Willow (their cat) was a bit pissed by the intrusion, but in the end all was fine.
My sis is now a kind of second home for my cats. I recently dropped them when I had a holiday-week. Still very joyful.
When I got back home, Fred was in the tree again. I was walking on crutches. No more tree-climbing.
He sat there for three days. Then he became hungry. On an early Friday morning he came out of the tree, jumping and falling the last nine feet
and running up to the food.
And they happily lived ever after.
= = = End of Post = = =
In this blog, a Strad is as much a legend as a Fender Stratocaster.
You can search my blog for 'Fender' or 'Zappa' to read the Jimi Hendrix stratocaster story.
