This is continued directly off of the last post in this series, available here.
When I assessed the situation in the first instant after the arrow fell out, I knew I was in trouble.
The right side of my T Shirt was soaked with fluid that obviously came out of my eye. I was probably 50 yards from the house and the safety of my mother. I carefully picked up the bow and arrow and walked to the house.
You see, this wasn’t my first crisis situation and I am that guy that really performs well when the shit hits the fan. I may collapse in a fetal ball when everything sorts out, but in the situation I keep my cool pretty well.
So I walked to the house, hung the crossbow on the rifle rack on the back porch, and turned right into the bathroom. I made a cool, wet compress with a washcloth and went to tell mom. I told her that we needed to go to town as soon as possible, that I had a very serious injury. She was ironing in the kitchen when I went in.
We had a small argument almost right away. I hadn’t looked at my eye (I was afraid I’d lose it if I did and knew I still had a part to play.) Mom wanted to see, and I didn’t want her to. I finally gave in, pulled the compress and she near fainted. Had to sit immediately. I made sure she was OK and told her I was going to get my car out for the trip.
When I had the car parked in the ready position right outside the door I went back in and mom was still behind the ironing board. She couldn’t decide what to do first. I told her to get her purse and I’d get Harry (my baby brother age 4) up from his nap and ready.
Then came the second moment of panic. Mom realized, and I didn’t know, that my special needs sister was on the school bus alone. We missed the window for calling the school and having her stay. So we had to drive the bus route in reverse to be able to get her off the bus. No possible way she could handle being home alone. None.
Then I told mom she had to drive. Normally she loved driving my car (my Dad had their Buick someplace that afternoon) but couldn’t remember how to work the clutch. She was barely with us, but I needed her to get to town. My vision was not good.
We did get my sister and got to town. It was probably an hour total time until I saw a doctor. My family doctor. He took one look and ordered up the ambulance to take me to Spokane. Then he came back in and cleaned me up a little and started the morphine. When the ambulance got there (it was a volunteer fire department and you never knew who was going to be the crew) I was glad to see my barber driving and a friend as tech.
It turns out I would be the last passenger in that ‘62 Caddy ambulance. I’m here to tell you that the suspension left something on the 75 mile trip to the hospital. It took an hour and a half. Hopp (the tech) gave me another shot of morphine on the way.
When we got to the doctor’s office in Spokane the gurney wouldn’t go in the door. The drill was that the surgeon’s partner was going to examine me and report to the surgeon who had left to eat supper and prep for surgery when he heard the report from my GP. I ended up walking into the office.
The partner took a quick look while I was standing then set me down on the floor of the now closed office. He looked and poked a little but very carefully. I had two shots of morphine and brutal vision and told him I was going to hurl. He said “Two minutes and we’ll have you on the way to the OR.” About one minute later I barfed on what turned out to be the first Armani suit I’d ever seen.
Source
My luck was changing already. Turns out, the surgeon was one of the top three eye surgeons in the US. He would put my eye back together and give me the optimum chance to see normally again. It didn’t work, there were a couple of pieces missing, but he gave me the chance. I barely remember getting to the hospital, and really don’t have any recall until the next morning.
I don’t remember my Dad getting there, but it turns out that he’d been on the route to the hospital taking care of some farm business in the County seat. He was there to make the necessary decisions that would mold much of my future.
I’m sorry for the bluntness of this post, but there is just no soft way to tell this story. I promise that the next one will be better.
All photos in this post are properly sourced and liscensed.
All words in this post are mine. For better or worse
You want some real motorcycle travel? Check out Velimir. That’s some kind of motorcycle writing.
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