It was always going to happen. Given enough trials, all possible events will occur.
I've been playing football of various codes for almost twenty years and never had an injury serious enough to be hospitalized. Last Friday night (18/08/2009), my turn came.
There were ten-ish minutes remaining in the Custard FC v Centenary Stormers Commercial League Soccer fixture. The score was 2-2. I went for a header; so did one of the Stormers boys.
Imagine the sound of an axe hitting a particularly hard log. The blood came quickly, and there was plenty of it. The cut was above my right eye, so I couldn't see it. Despite the quantity of blood, I still held some hope that the first person to inspect it would say 'It's nothing. Just a scratch. Get up.'
The reality was closer to 'Urrgghh. Don't move Richo. Somebody call an ambulance!'
I really didn't want to be that guy; the one who gets hurt and just sits in the middle of the field, preventing everyone else from continuing the game. I was insisting that I was OK to move off to the side, but I was encountering some resistance on the issue. So, I became that guy, and the remainder of the game was abandoned.
You know how the story goes from here: ambulance, waiting room, nurse, doctor, operating room, home.
The paramedics took all precautions. They put me in a neck-brace, and onto a stretcher. They took my blood pressure, and put one of those little clips onto the tip of my finger (to measure pulse, maybe?). They then performed a series of neurological tests, stuck an IV into my arm, and pumped in some Maxalon to prevent me from vomitting; I don't blame them; I wouldn't want to clean the van either :)
'Public or private?' asks one of the ambos. I realise that I haven't re-activated my suspended health insurance since returning from the UK. Who knew that procastination wasn't always the best approach? M-A requests that I be taken to her home-ground; the Mater.
In the hospital, once the doctor was satisfied there was no spine, brain or bone damage, there was nothing left to do but some sewing. Ten jabs of local anaesetic and eight stitches later, and it was time to go home.
I have heard some unfavourable reports of Australian hospital emergency departments. I feel the need to counter with my own. My experience could hardly have been better: The ambulance arrived in less than ten minutes; I was seen quickly in the ED; And I was treated well by everyone. From the time it happened on the field, to the home I arrived home stitched up, was perhaps three hours. And totally free.
A week later, and the stitches are out. I have the scar as a perma-memory, but more interesting is that I have lost sensation in my forehead above the wound. It seems my supra-orbital nerve was damaged. So I've become a James Bond villain, with an evil looking scar above my eye and impervious to pain (at least in my right forehead - the remainder of me is just as pervious as ever). And while I'm making movie comparisons, walking around the office, I felt like Edward Norton in Fight Club. I wanted to wear a badge: "It didn't happen in a fight". It was an interesting social experiment though. Some people, despite being complete strangers, couldn't contain their curiosity and inquired what happened. Others nearly jumped out the window to avoid making eye contact.
I've been playing football of various codes for almost twenty years and never had an injury serious enough to be hospitalized. Last Friday night (18/08/2009), my turn came.
There were ten-ish minutes remaining in the Custard FC v Centenary Stormers Commercial League Soccer fixture. The score was 2-2. I went for a header; so did one of the Stormers boys.
Imagine the sound of an axe hitting a particularly hard log. The blood came quickly, and there was plenty of it. The cut was above my right eye, so I couldn't see it. Despite the quantity of blood, I still held some hope that the first person to inspect it would say 'It's nothing. Just a scratch. Get up.'
The reality was closer to 'Urrgghh. Don't move Richo. Somebody call an ambulance!'
I really didn't want to be that guy; the one who gets hurt and just sits in the middle of the field, preventing everyone else from continuing the game. I was insisting that I was OK to move off to the side, but I was encountering some resistance on the issue. So, I became that guy, and the remainder of the game was abandoned.
You know how the story goes from here: ambulance, waiting room, nurse, doctor, operating room, home.
The paramedics took all precautions. They put me in a neck-brace, and onto a stretcher. They took my blood pressure, and put one of those little clips onto the tip of my finger (to measure pulse, maybe?). They then performed a series of neurological tests, stuck an IV into my arm, and pumped in some Maxalon to prevent me from vomitting; I don't blame them; I wouldn't want to clean the van either :)
'Public or private?' asks one of the ambos. I realise that I haven't re-activated my suspended health insurance since returning from the UK. Who knew that procastination wasn't always the best approach? M-A requests that I be taken to her home-ground; the Mater.
In the hospital, once the doctor was satisfied there was no spine, brain or bone damage, there was nothing left to do but some sewing. Ten jabs of local anaesetic and eight stitches later, and it was time to go home.
I have heard some unfavourable reports of Australian hospital emergency departments. I feel the need to counter with my own. My experience could hardly have been better: The ambulance arrived in less than ten minutes; I was seen quickly in the ED; And I was treated well by everyone. From the time it happened on the field, to the home I arrived home stitched up, was perhaps three hours. And totally free.
A week later, and the stitches are out. I have the scar as a perma-memory, but more interesting is that I have lost sensation in my forehead above the wound. It seems my supra-orbital nerve was damaged. So I've become a James Bond villain, with an evil looking scar above my eye and impervious to pain (at least in my right forehead - the remainder of me is just as pervious as ever). And while I'm making movie comparisons, walking around the office, I felt like Edward Norton in Fight Club. I wanted to wear a badge: "It didn't happen in a fight". It was an interesting social experiment though. Some people, despite being complete strangers, couldn't contain their curiosity and inquired what happened. Others nearly jumped out the window to avoid making eye contact.
