"The Incident"
I have put this off for a little while now, but I guess now is as good a time as any to tell the story of the night I broke my arm and embarked on a lengthy stay in a Chinese hospital...
Life was going quite nicely; I had acclimated myself to my routine as a teacher in Wuhan, and felt in high spirits that warm evening at the beginning of the school year. We had been celebrating the return of a fellow teacher at one of our favorite little dive restaurants (unimaginatively referred to as "Lamb," as lamb skewers happens to be the main draw, though certainly they offered a full range of grilled delicacies, from eggplant to mushrooms, and little plastic cups to go with some near-novelty beer globe towers). I was feeling pretty good about my scooter skills having zipped on over to dinner through traffic and via a highway shoulder. And so, armed with a largely unjustified confidence in my motoring abilities and a belly full of that tasty repast, I punched up my return route into my trusty iPhone.
I opted to take a quiter direction for the way home - no sense zipping around on the highway twice in one day, after all, I reasoned ironically to myself. The roads were more or less empty at this time of night, but I notice that they were wet - not due to rain, of course, but because of the scourge of the city: the water trucks. These trucks go around the streets and spray them down with water to...well...I suppose try to keep the dust and pollution down. Some just take a low approach, spraying into the ground, while others employ the nightmarish tactic of spraying high into the air like a demented water park on wheels.
Normally, this wouldn't be a huge issue, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed popping out of a side entrance to the street, with no care as to who else might already be zooming merily along. Thinking quickly (perhaps a bit too quickly), I jammed on my handlebar brakes. In retrospect, I suppose I should have just honked my little horn and gone even faster. In any event, things did start to slow down...at least in my head.
I saw more than felt my sporty moped begin to slide out from under me. Instead of sliding down with it, my body took to the air as I went sailing over the handlebars. I had time enough for a few choice ideas to climb aboard my train of thought as it raced against the pull of gravity.
In the first class cabin rode the regret of my choice in helmets. When I bought the scooter, I could have left the store with a pink one...or wait a few weeks for the black one on back order. Curse my masculine vanity!
Watching with a bemused, resigned, stoic sense of horror from the caboose was the premature realization that this was how it was all going to end: my obituary written on the streets of Wuhan, China.
These thoughts quickly disembarked as I landed just like they teach you: with an awkwardly placed arm and your forehead. A few tumbles later, and I found myself still in the land of the living, a few feet away from the bike. The car driver must have been certain that I had survive, as he made sure to avoid running over my injured body on his way past the accident he had just caused. I notice that my iPhone had also been thrown clear of the crash, and lay in the middle of the damp street, much like its owner. I retrieved it with my left hand, as I ruefully examined my right arm. Even from a cursory glance I could tell that its unnatural angle meant that I was in a world of trouble.
As I gathered myself, I hazily figured that my previous training from my army days and countless hours of reading adventure stories watching movies indicated that I should probably straighten it out, and so I did (I suppose the combination of leftover macho bravado and shock also contributed to this decision). I decided to celebrate this accomplishment by leaning up against a light post on the side of the street. At this point, I had to presence of mind to remember that Tom, our principal, had said to call him in case of medical emergency, which I reasoned this qualified. Fortunately, he picked up, and started on his way, though my directions were somewhat vague (let's say that my knowledge of Wuhan streets is not near my level of knowledge of Vancouver/Seattle/Tacoma/Honolulu streets).
The adrenaline was starting to wear off, giving way to shock, and I found myself sliding down the pole. I decided that laying down on the street was a reasonable position to take at this point. I also felt the need for additional assistance, so I retrieved my surprisingly undamaged iPhone to send a WeChat message to Joe (as the last person who I had been with, I figured that he was least likely to be asleep. Plus, he had a motor-scooter too, so I thought he'd be able to swing by quicker).
I could tell that my mind was functioning at a sub-optimal level at this point; I chalked this up to the fact that it was dealing with an unanticipated surge in pain stimuli (well, and of course, a likely serious concussion). As a result, sending a simple message, or even navigating the touchscreen to select a name, became a real chore, as my focus kept resetting. Somehow, I was eventually able to relate my message of woe to my friend, who got right on to coming to my aid, once he was able to wander through my marginally-coherent messages.
Adding insult to injury, another water truck passed by to spray me down as I contemplated my misfortune on the asphalt. Just one blessing after another!
Luckily for me, a very helpful Chinese guy stopped by to see if I was ok. He first took me for a drunk; I didn't blame him, as I certainly presented in such a fashion, lying facedown on a wet street late at night. His English was passable enough for me to explain to him the situation, and point to my downed transport. I got him to explain my location in precisely to Tom (who thankfully speaks Mandarin reasonably well), as Joe rolled up to assess the situation. After grabbing a bottle of water for me, he offered to take my bike back to the apartment. I happily took him up on his offer, and Tom arrived in his car to ferry me over to the hospital.
The hospital turned out to be an adventure in of itself...
Life was going quite nicely; I had acclimated myself to my routine as a teacher in Wuhan, and felt in high spirits that warm evening at the beginning of the school year. We had been celebrating the return of a fellow teacher at one of our favorite little dive restaurants (unimaginatively referred to as "Lamb," as lamb skewers happens to be the main draw, though certainly they offered a full range of grilled delicacies, from eggplant to mushrooms, and little plastic cups to go with some near-novelty beer globe towers). I was feeling pretty good about my scooter skills having zipped on over to dinner through traffic and via a highway shoulder. And so, armed with a largely unjustified confidence in my motoring abilities and a belly full of that tasty repast, I punched up my return route into my trusty iPhone.
I opted to take a quiter direction for the way home - no sense zipping around on the highway twice in one day, after all, I reasoned ironically to myself. The roads were more or less empty at this time of night, but I notice that they were wet - not due to rain, of course, but because of the scourge of the city: the water trucks. These trucks go around the streets and spray them down with water to...well...I suppose try to keep the dust and pollution down. Some just take a low approach, spraying into the ground, while others employ the nightmarish tactic of spraying high into the air like a demented water park on wheels.
Normally, this wouldn't be a huge issue, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed popping out of a side entrance to the street, with no care as to who else might already be zooming merily along. Thinking quickly (perhaps a bit too quickly), I jammed on my handlebar brakes. In retrospect, I suppose I should have just honked my little horn and gone even faster. In any event, things did start to slow down...at least in my head.
I saw more than felt my sporty moped begin to slide out from under me. Instead of sliding down with it, my body took to the air as I went sailing over the handlebars. I had time enough for a few choice ideas to climb aboard my train of thought as it raced against the pull of gravity.
In the first class cabin rode the regret of my choice in helmets. When I bought the scooter, I could have left the store with a pink one...or wait a few weeks for the black one on back order. Curse my masculine vanity!
Watching with a bemused, resigned, stoic sense of horror from the caboose was the premature realization that this was how it was all going to end: my obituary written on the streets of Wuhan, China.
These thoughts quickly disembarked as I landed just like they teach you: with an awkwardly placed arm and your forehead. A few tumbles later, and I found myself still in the land of the living, a few feet away from the bike. The car driver must have been certain that I had survive, as he made sure to avoid running over my injured body on his way past the accident he had just caused. I notice that my iPhone had also been thrown clear of the crash, and lay in the middle of the damp street, much like its owner. I retrieved it with my left hand, as I ruefully examined my right arm. Even from a cursory glance I could tell that its unnatural angle meant that I was in a world of trouble.
As I gathered myself, I hazily figured that my previous training from my army days and countless hours of reading adventure stories watching movies indicated that I should probably straighten it out, and so I did (I suppose the combination of leftover macho bravado and shock also contributed to this decision). I decided to celebrate this accomplishment by leaning up against a light post on the side of the street. At this point, I had to presence of mind to remember that Tom, our principal, had said to call him in case of medical emergency, which I reasoned this qualified. Fortunately, he picked up, and started on his way, though my directions were somewhat vague (let's say that my knowledge of Wuhan streets is not near my level of knowledge of Vancouver/Seattle/Tacoma/Honolulu streets).
The adrenaline was starting to wear off, giving way to shock, and I found myself sliding down the pole. I decided that laying down on the street was a reasonable position to take at this point. I also felt the need for additional assistance, so I retrieved my surprisingly undamaged iPhone to send a WeChat message to Joe (as the last person who I had been with, I figured that he was least likely to be asleep. Plus, he had a motor-scooter too, so I thought he'd be able to swing by quicker).
I could tell that my mind was functioning at a sub-optimal level at this point; I chalked this up to the fact that it was dealing with an unanticipated surge in pain stimuli (well, and of course, a likely serious concussion). As a result, sending a simple message, or even navigating the touchscreen to select a name, became a real chore, as my focus kept resetting. Somehow, I was eventually able to relate my message of woe to my friend, who got right on to coming to my aid, once he was able to wander through my marginally-coherent messages.
Adding insult to injury, another water truck passed by to spray me down as I contemplated my misfortune on the asphalt. Just one blessing after another!
Luckily for me, a very helpful Chinese guy stopped by to see if I was ok. He first took me for a drunk; I didn't blame him, as I certainly presented in such a fashion, lying facedown on a wet street late at night. His English was passable enough for me to explain to him the situation, and point to my downed transport. I got him to explain my location in precisely to Tom (who thankfully speaks Mandarin reasonably well), as Joe rolled up to assess the situation. After grabbing a bottle of water for me, he offered to take my bike back to the apartment. I happily took him up on his offer, and Tom arrived in his car to ferry me over to the hospital.
The hospital turned out to be an adventure in of itself...
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