Continued from Thunder Down Under: Part III
WARNING: The following is graphic, at times disturbing, and true with plenty of TMI to go around. Part I doesn’t include anything too disturbing, simply the events leading up. If you’re squeamish, easily disturbed or simply aren’t interested in the details of a serious medical fiasco, I recommend not reading beyond Part I. This entry covers the details of the past several days, starting around 2 PM Monday afternoon when I first experienced an inguinal hernia rupture while working as a ski instructor.
Everything I know about hernias, I learned working in a pet store.
Which is to say, I know nothing about hernias. They happen. They’re medical. They’re taken care of by a vet. A small part of me prays I’m not taken care of by a vet. A larger part of me thinks that small part of me is an idiot.
I am one with my pain. Each gurgle and shift in my bowels is another tick of my biological clock. Every twitch of my leg, shiver up my spine, or sudden sigh is a sharp pinch followed by a slow and tense moment of relaxation. People weave in and out of the room, checking up on me, joking about dino nuggets, expressing disbelief that this really is something more. They offer solidarity, words of wisdom, consolation. It’s all background noise to the pain. I wonder if the meds would help clarify, make everything more lucid, but I know it’ll only dull everything.
My supervisors make arrangements for my things. My skis, left on the bus along with Avery’s, are collected and stashed. I have no clue where. I don’t really care. My boots are buckled up and moved back to the locker room as I rattle off the order of notches I keep them set at: 4 on top, then 5, then 3, then 2. Alicia notes her husband Larry the Bootfitter would be pissed if he saw unbuckled boots in the locker room. Tzvi is slightly surprised by this, but he doesn’t understand. He’s a snowboarder.
They take down my locker combination and collect and organize my things. A few minutes later, my jacket and the jovial flower backpack appear. I swear that for the first time there’s a certain sinister twinge to the way it’s winking at me.
“It sucks getting old,” Liz jokes, rounding off her second visit to FAR.
“Woo!” I holler half-heartedly, my left fist raised in the air. “First major injury of my Thirties!” She smiles with her mouth, but her eyes belie her levity.
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