The Mishap

It could have been a lot worse

Whew, yesterday was a big day. It started with the burned milk. After the cleanup, I was on my bike by 6:30 am. 

I rode down Girivalam, on which there were a few pilgrims doing the walk around Arunachala, the ever present sadhus, but not much motorbike or other traffic. Left turn onto Vediapannur, left turn on one of the side roads to Chengam road, right to Greenland road, to the end, left up that steep hill, to the summit, turn around, back down, right onto Girivalam to get some fenugreek seeds at one of the shops in Adi Annamalai. Then home. I’d been out for a couple of hours. 

By 8:30 am, there was quite a bit of traffic. Before I turned onto the road that leads to our house—just a couple blocks away, I prudently got off my bike to look both ways.

Just after I got back on my bike, I realized that there was traffic I hadn’t seen. There was no avoiding it. Onlookers must have sensed it too: there was a collective gasp. I hunkered down and that’s all that I remember about the actual accident. 

I must have been out, but very briefly. A crowd had gathered as I picked myself up and walked over to the curb, where I sat in a daze. Bloodied: face, arm, clothes. 

A kind gentleman, younger, dressed in white, retrieved my bike from the road.

“Are you okay?“  

He spoke English. He stayed with me, talking, getting me to talk; I’m sure he was assessing me. After a few minutes, I just wanted to get home and told him. He walked with me and wheeled my bike.

When Jehan saw me, she screamed. And then she cried and kind of darted around frantically, looking and turning away. She handles these situations like I do— I did not miss my calling as a nurse. 

Initially, she didn’t know what to do. And I knew she wasn’t feeling well, she’d had the “aura” that morning, the aura associated with a migraine. 

But she leapt into service and once calmed, she was my rock, my trauma doula. 

She and the young man decided I should get to the hospital. He summoned an auto rickshaw, Ishani got my ID, money, and about 10 minutes later, Jehan, Ishani, Olive (Ishani’s chocolate toy poodle) and I were off to the hospital. I gave my purse to Jehan to hold for me; I knew I couldn’t trust myself to look after my bag. 

It all felt like a lot of hoopla; I was a little addled, but nothing hurt.

I didn’t get the name of the samaritan. I bless him daily.

The hospital is fairly close: to Chengam road from Sparsa road, left turn, right  turn at the bus stop, and down that road where the electric board is. You keep going for hmm, a klick or two, the hospital is off to the left.

Jehan did the intake while a nurse ushered me to a bed; the sheets were a bit rumpled and looked like they had only been lightly used before me. Over the next couple of hours, they took my blood pressure, did a blood sugar test (India has a high rate of diabetes), numbed the right side of my face close to my eye, my right elbow, gave me a mild sedative that I didn’t need, a tetanus shot, and stitched me up. Then an antibiotic.

I joked with the young doctor about performing a blepharoplasty while he was doing the stitches. 

Between procedures, there was usually a wait. I looked around and was mildly appalled at the overflowing waste baskets next to the bed. Sharps in one, used dressings in another. A bit of blood spatter on the wall. I wished I’d had my camera. 

Not to say that hospitals in the US are any cleaner, maybe visibly, but you can get some pretty nasty infections: C-diff, MERSA, VRE. I once cared for a woman who had contracted C-diff at a hospital; she’d gone in for dehydration. Medicine to treat it was $2,500 a pop, the efficacy was hit and miss.

During my time in the emergency room, Jehan was sent back and forth to the payment window with each shot, each procedure. 

After the shots, the stitching, the doctor wanted to know what happened. Initially, I thought I had been hit, but when I considered it again, that didn’t make any sense: no broken bones, my bike was intact. 

Basically, they wanted to know if they should report the incident to the police but no, it was my fault. I didn’t see whatever was coming my way until too late. Fortunately, the other driver had avoided a collision.

What must have happened was a face plant because I had a big gash on my upper right cheek close to my eye, and my chin and lip were scraped and bleeding. A gash on my right elbow. Scrapes on arm and leg. Skinned knee.

A couple of days after the accident.

And a bit of unscheduled dental work. I’ve always had this sticky outy front tooth, number 7. After the accident, I could feel that it was repositioned. Not perfectly, unfortunately, but now it doesn’t stick out as much and half of it is back under the gum line. Strangely, the adjustment didn’t hurt. But I would need to see a dentist.

When they could do no more for me, they gave me some meds and recommended that I get a brain scan just to be sure. Unfortunately, that was clear across town. 

Fortunately, the auto rickshaw driver had stayed at the hospital with us, so off we went, first to drop Ishani and Olive off at home, then to the imaging center. 

It’s after 11 am now, and pretty warm. And ohmygosh, the traffic. Past the temple, into town. I’ve lived here off and on for years, but I’ve only been to the town proper maybe five times. It’s an anthill. I don’t know how the driver made it through.

At the imaging center, there’s a row of chairs along one wall, all occupied. Jehan gave the receptionist the paperwork and we found a seat. And wait. I wondered what had happened to a boy, early teens, who was limping. 

I drew some stares. By now I was bandaged up, the stitches were anyway. But the abrasions on the right side of my face, lip, chin, arm were visible. Bruising and swelling had started. My kurta was bloodied. 

Actually, the wait wasn’t all that long, maybe 20 minutes.

A nurse called us and handed us off to the imaging technician. 

When I saw the imaging machine, it brought up a terror in me. There was a “bed” to lie on, and it looked like the bed would slide into a long cylinder, completely confining me. Nope. Pass.

The tech assured me that it would only take five minutes. 

Let’s get this straight—an Indian says five minutes and it could mean five hours, or five days. Or never.

The confinement scared me. But he assured me, five minutes. So I took a few deep breaths and complied. Head in the cradle.

It turned out that the bed just slid a few inches to position my head under the cameras. It wasn’t a whole body sacrifice. So I remained still, did some deep breathing, and successfully stayed the claustrophobia. The entire procedure took probably less than five minutes.

We waited about 45 minutes for the images along with the written interpretation: no damage. 

Whew. Relief. We were supposed to take the images back to the hospital, but we’d all been out long enough.

By now, it’s after 2 pm. I’d had coffee around 3 am, but that was all. 

Ishani’s favorite restaurant was close by so Jehan guided the driver to it for take away: Biryani, her favorite rice dish for Ishani; and chicken butter masala— a north Indian dish of mostly onions, tomatoes, spices and cream, whipped into a gravy— for Jehan and me. Since the driver’s English was limited and our Tamil is even more limited, and Ishani wasn’t there to interpret, we decided to get Biryani for the driver.  

The fallout: For a few days after the accident, I was finding bruises: hip, legs, arm. I had never seen a genuinely black bruise before, but a fairly large one showed up on the right side of my face, under my chin, a couple of days after the mishap. A week and a half later, it’s faded some, but it’s still there. 

Note: my friend, a nurse, told me that one doesn’t always bruise at the site of impact. She explained the black bruising at the chin: “hemoglobin, naturally heavy, from broken red blood cells collects at the chin area via gravity—not necessarily because you got clocked there.”

I’m back to turning heads, though not for the same reason, I’m guessing, as when I was much younger. 

I haven’t been on my bike since it happened. I will return to riding, but I’ll stick to country roads. 

Instead of riding in the morning, I’ve been accompanying Jehan on her morning walks. We get in up to 17,000 steps, so we’re out for a couple of hours or more, starting around 5 am.

When Jehan reported the incident to Saran, he said that there’s road work going on in town, close to the temple. Traffic has been rerouted onto Girivalam so there’s a lot more traffic than usual.

The incident happened on a Wednesday. The following Wednesday, I got on the back of Jehan’s scooter and we returned to the hospital to have the stitches removed. 

Before going into the ER, we stopped at the Accounts window and paid for the visit:  Rs 100. 

The receptionist found my file and gave it to me and into the ER we went. 

The nurse, a round, buxom woman, showed me to a bed. I couldn’t help but notice it looked like it had been used before. There was a drop of blood on it, and it was a little rumpled. But I’m not going to complain. She put the sleeve on my right arm and took my blood pressure: 104/73. 

She was gentle as she removed the stitches. “Let me know if it hurts; I will stop if it hurts.” A real mothering sort of nurse. She hugged me when it was finished, after I told her she was kind. 

Bruising is still there, especially that black patch under my chin. But even it is fading, as is the shiner, the swelling and light green bruising all along the right side of my face. 

But I think I’m going to be lucky. I don’t think the scar will be very noticeable, and I think the scrapes will heal without scarring. 

At 70, it certainly doesn’t matter like it would have if I were in my teens or 20s or 30s.

The takeaway: I always wonder why things happen; I’m not entirely sure why this happened. It’s made me more cautious, less sure of myself. 

I’ve always believed in health and done what I could to maintain it: I work out regularly and I cook for myself, seldom going out for meals, seldom using processed “foods.” I haven’t had many accidents over the years.

My daughters have both told me that they would take care of me when I’m old, doddering. I told them that I would do everything in my power to see that they wouldn’t have to make good on that promise.

I’m reminded of the feeling I had when my grandmother, who was in her late 80s then, took my hand as we walked together. It was such a direct show of vulnerability. And it was the most natural thing to her. Practical.

For me, it was all about role reversal. She was the child now; I was the adult.

It’s made me more appreciative of Jehan; I don’t know what I would have done without her. She really took charge and she was a natural in that role. 

That and I’ve always had a hard time with accents; I turn on subtitles for British films. I looked to Jehan to interpret when English was spoken with the Indian accent; I didn’t know what was being said. This happens more often than I like to admit.

Now I’m back to normal. Almost. 

Twelve days in

Oh, the total cost for the hospital services: 

First ER visit Rs 2600

Imaging 1800

Stitch removal 484

Total Rs 4884

Total USD 4884/81 = $60.30

The other thing that happened the day before my mishap: there was a bus crash on Chengam, a main thoroughfare close to where we live. Twenty-seven people were killed.

When I say I am lucky, I really mean it.