Bicycle vs. Car (Part 2)

At this point, the paramedics have taken over my care completely.  I can hear the EKG monitor in the background.  Beep Beep.... Beep Beep.  The pressure in my shoulder has increased to an almost intolerable point.  My general pain level is quite high.

Before the door swings closed for the final time at the scene, there's a quick discussion about which hospital to take me to.  I'm given the choice between Atlanta Medical and Grady.  I ask about Emory or Dekalb but those are quickly ruled out because I'm considered a "trauma patient" and need to go to a Trauma Center.  When it comes to trauma, I figure there's no better place to be than Grady.

So we're off.  I wait for the driver to hit the sirens... no siren.  I ask the paramedic in the back of the ambulance whether the driver's going to light it up.  So far, no lights.

As we're moving along, I can't see out the window.  It's an odd and uncomfortable feeling not being able to look side to side to orient yourself, but also to simply see what's going on around you.   I'm trying to figure out which route the driver chose to get us to the hospital.

The pressure in my shoulder is serious business.  The paramedic and I go through a series of questions and answers.  He seems to be writing stuff down.  We get through all the typical questions about health history, finally landing on my current condition.

"You have a broken nose and an obvious deformity of your left shoulder.  There's some blood on your face and you have a two and a half centimeter lac on the left cheek."

OK - obvious deformity?  He goes on to say that the good doctors at Grady will just reduce my dislocation and give me something for the pain.

Beep Beep... Beep Beep Beep... something behind me is going a little crazy with the beeping.  The paramedic gives the little blood oxygen meter that's clamped onto my right index finger a little attention.  He then asks me if I feel OK.  I get a little concerned but let him know that I feel the same.  The beeping hasn't stopped.  He finally lets me know that my blood ox has moved down to 96% and puts an oxygen mask over my face.  Urgh... Do I have broken ribs and a punctured lung after all?

I'm still amazed that we don't have sirens and a renewed interest in getting to our destination with any additional haste.   Bringing the subject back up to the paramedic, I grab the oxygen mask with my right hand, pull it down from my mouth and just simply say, "sirens?"

"Jeff - if your oxygen level gets under 95, we'll light it up and 'expedite'."

The roads of intown Atlanta are bumpy.  We're sitting in lines of traffic at every intersection.  Stop and Go... Stop and Go.  The jostling and moving around is made more uncomfortable by the fact that I can't brace myself while going over some of these big bumps.  My body presses against the straps as the ambulance shifts left to right and right to left.  Although secured to the backboard which is secured to the gurney, I can't escape the feeling that I'm going to get dumped off of this thing and onto the floor.

The paramedic calls up to the driver and says, "Let's pick it up!"  Awwwwl Raaaaght.

As we back into a spot in the Ambulance bay, my brain does a little trick on me.  I quickly see myself in a scene like in ER, where the doctors, along with their trusty residents come rushing to my side, do a quick triage and then wheel me into a room and do a lot of poking and prodding.  The thing I fear the most is a chest tube.  If I really have a collapsed/collapsing/punctured lung, I have to assume that's where things are headed.  I start shaking a little....

Doors swing open and I'm on the move.  We're greeted at the entrance by a police officer.  He looks over me, into my window of visibility and says, "Welcome to Grady!" while slapping some tracking sticker onto my side.  All I can think of to respond with is "Thank you!".

Once inside the sliding doors, my familiar ER scene comes to life.  Several white coats have surrounded me.  I am bombarded with questions about who I am, how I feel, where I think I am, what I think I'm doing there... all the stuff.... then a woman who's not wearing scrubs or a white coat hovers over me.  She's holding a clipboard.  She tries to hand me a pen and indicates I need to sign this paper before going further into the unit.  She puts a pen in my right hand.  Everyone assumes you're right handed.  I tell her I'm left handed and she then picks up my left arm to put the pen in my left hand and I yelp.... or bark... She drops my arm and says, "Oh, you're messed up? OK.   Put him over there against the wall.  Everyone's in 2 working that non-responsive battery patient."

Gotta love metro Atlanta.

In part 3... stolen phones, uncontrollable shaking and the final diagnosis.