I was extremely lucky to have the opportunity to have dinner at one of Seattle’s finest Italian restaurants with a great bottle of wine and a beautiful woman last night. Walking the streets of downtown Seattle through Pikes Market and the cozy tony Belltown Neighborhood. Everything was going right for me when it happened.
Riding a motorcycle around your home can be dangerous. Riding around the world can be dangerous. When you’re miles away from the comfort zone of your own community the last thing anyone wants or expects is a major disaster or a mild hiccup.
My hiccup happened last night. Not that I really needed new material for this blog relating to the Swedish Medical Center from “Pill Hill” in Seattle. But maybe this emergency room would be slightly different. The cabbie worked as an intern at a competing hospital also located on “Pill Hill”, he strongly suggested that we go to the Swedish Medical Center.
“It’ll be more comfortable and quicker,” he assured us as I handed him a $!0 bill and limped toward the sliding glass doors.
About 30 minutes later my name is called.
Forget motorcycling. Walking can be dangerous. I decided to take in the water sculpture, fountain and walkways of a city scape courtyard feature on 4th outside a couple tall buildings. A couple steps up and I walked across a short walkway elevated above the water just slightly so to still experience the thrill of misting fog and water. Angie didn’t want to get wet, so she stayed below and watched. And as I made my u-turn to return to solid ground, I stepped down and something went awry. My right foot buckled under my ankle and a jumped up grabbing my knee and slowly setting my foot down.
The pain was moving through me faster than a bullet train. All I wanted was a glass of port and an espresso.
I knew I sprained the mother… maybe worse. I’ve twisted, turned and flopped both my ankles around enough over the years that I know the drill. But this time the pain seemed worse. We hobbled to the White Horse near Pikes Market and ordered a glass of Port and called our cabbie.
The ER doctor a tall woman in her late 30’s was tall, auburn hair pulled back and wore a long dress with a short slit and has she walked revealed a completely tattooed leg.
She handed me a bottle of ibupropen and a handful of Vicadins.
“Don’t let this interfere with your trip,” she consulted with me as the intern wrapped an ace bandage around my ankle.
“You’ve got a convulsion fracture — a really bad sprain. But people with worse injuries have done more physically demanding activities than ride a motorcycle.”
These words didn’t settle well with Angie as revealed by the look in her eye as the doctor delivered her advice.
“Just don’t put your foot down. It’s too bad this happens in the middle of your trip. But don’t let it interrupt or ruin it. I know. My husband rides a bike.”
Sure. Why not head into the last frontier with a broken foot and move like a gimp through the tundra while scouting caribou, moose and grizzly bears. Sure. Sounds good to me.
All I could think is thank god it was my right foot. Had this happened to my left foot I’d be temporarily stranded. With the weight of the bike on the side stand which leans to the left, I’d never be able to pick the bike up off the side stand if my left foot had incurred the injury.
I downed the ibupropen, through a big bag of ice on my foot and closed my eyes.
Yes. The adventure has begun.