Thursday, May 10, 2007
Cycling Accident #2
I'm writing this wearing a wrist brace, stitches, glue, emergency dental work and bruises.
I was cycling slowly along a busy road, trying to clear my head from another frustrating day studying. I had two options: go see a movie, or take a long bike ride by the lake. 'I'll be healthy,' I thought, 'And go cycling, instead of staring at a screen.' I went on a feeder road - one branch forked to the expressway, another into the park. I prepared to change lanes into the slower fork, did a shoulder check - and hit an unpainted speed bump. Or rather, a series of small ridges in the road, designed to slow down cars. Since I was getting ready to signal my turn, I wasn't gripping my handlebars very tightly. It took less than a second for me to catapult over my front handlebars onto the pavement, face-first.
The first thing I noticed on the pavement was my front tooth, a few feet away. I got unsteadily to my feet, conscious of oncoming traffic which I waved away. But not for too long - I stumbled to the curb, blood flowing from my mouth and dripping onto my shorts. I cupped my lip to try and stem it, which just succeeded in getting my hand bloody.
Traffic stopped. A woman on her bike told me everything would be OK, they can re-attach teeth, it happened to her - she pointed to her teeth. She said "You're in shock now, so don't worry about it." I was glad she did, because my mind was racing without going anywhere. I had to tell myself, 'Your job is to sit on the curb.' I wasn't in pain, I just felt dizzy.
Two policemen on bikes showed up. They got me some gauze, asked me if I needed an ambulance and when I couldn't answer - my mouth being stuffed with gauze - they called one for me. One officer picked up my tooth fragment and put it in a latex glove; "You don't want me touching it," he said, "My hands have been in a crackhead's pockets." They also picked up my glasses - what was left of them - and put them in my bag. The paramedics helped me hobble to the van and drove me to the hospital, while I sat still and tried to manage the dizziness.
"This is the kind of thing that makes the job worth it."
"Yup."
Hospitals are depressing places. I lay in my curtained cubicle in Emergency listening to the woman on my left throw up, and tell the doctor about her 35 years of cigarettes and alcohol; and the woman on my right answer questions about her cancer. I called some friends and left semi-coherent messages. I bit my gauze and waited for the doctor. He finally came, asked to see my mouth and said, "I'll put some plaster on that and see if we can save the pulpy parts." 'Pulpy' is not a word I want associated with my mouth.
In the examining room, he gave me stitches, glued a cut and tweezed more tooth fragments embedded in my gum, which I had half-bitten through when I landed. He suggested visiting an emergency dental surgery clinic. In the meantime I waited for a wrist x-ray, listening to a lumpen couple nearby complain about waiting for 4 hours, watching old men in hospital robes hobble by me, and getting creeped out by the atmosphere of ill-health. After an hour it was clear my x-ray wasn't coming, and I could feel the exposed nerves of my chipped teeth. (I did venture a look, and there wasn't anything pulpy at all, just a nice arc where two of my whole teeth used to be.)
I discharged myself and took a cab over to the dental office across town, where the on-call Russian dentist was waiting. "Your tooth has been split down the middle; it may need a root canal," he told me. This, after an accident, ride in an ambulance and a hospital bed, was not good news - I didn't have much energy left. "But for now we will try to reattach the pieces," he said, and did so using epoxy and a blue light tube. I was grateful - even if my dental plan didn't cover emergencies, not having a gaping hole in my mouth was worth it.
Actually, pain isn't as funny as it looks.
I made my way home by public transit. It's interesting how people react when you walk down the street dotted with dried blood and bruises. No one makes eye contact; the tough-looking guys keep a respectful distance. The next day, I cleaned up, taped my glasses and wore a wrist brace. All the scars on my face lined up like hits from a right hook. I started getting admiring glances from teenagers. People like the idea of getting into fights, they just don't want to help in the moment. Which brings me to some conclusions:
Regular readers (if I still have any) will notice my glowing descriptions of the police. The police were great: they were there within minutes, performed first aid, called the ambulance and stayed with me till it was there. They even wheeled my bike to the station and told me I could pick it up later. But Victor, you might ask, doesn't this smack of hypocrisy? After all, you've slammed the police as racist thugs. Isn't this what the Right's always on about: sissy leftists who moan about human rights until they actually need a cop?
I've never knocked the police for being helpful. If the city wants to put police on bicycles to roam around doling out First Aid, I'm all for it. However, two days later I saw a cop arresting a Chinese guy for the crime of selling pirate DVDs. It's not the nursing I object to - it's defending the property rights of businesses, and the status quo. They were great to me, but I'm white and clean-cut. Had I been black, native or homeless, they might have searched me for drugs before giving me gauze.
Which brings me to my next point: habitus, for my purposes the set of cultural behaviours associated with a class. And I got it in spades. While I was waiting for my x-ray, the lumpen couple nearby were complaining. And when I say 'lumpen', I mean dressed like it's small-town Tuesday night in 1986, voices gravelly from years of smoking, and an attitude of deference. They complained a lot - to each other. But even though they'd been waiting 4 hours, neither one asked the nurse.
After 45 minutes, I asked the nurse; she brushed me off, so I asked again; she walked away, so I want to the front desk, made eye contact and used big words. The guy at the desk came with me to speak to the doctor on my behalf. Not because I deserved it more, but because we were the same age and dress style, I'm not scared off by secretaries, and I have a sense of entitlement to good service. When I was in the dentists' chair, I could hear the secretary telling a caller, "If you're on social services, you get seen between 9am and 3pm. Otherwise it's not free." She kept repeating it. I have dental insurance; they didn't set time limits, and she was much friendlier to me. Middle class people expect more from their lives; and, from all the horror stories I hear from friends in retail, they often get it.
I value and appreciate experts
Finally, public health care is awesome. Yeah, I had to wait 40 minutes in emergency, and I didn't have time to get my hospital x-ray. But I was absolutely helpless after the accident, in shock. Public employees got me to a hospital, took care of me when I was there and I didn't need to pay anything (except for the dentist - how is dental care non-essential?) Of course the service could be better. I'm not sold on the idea of warehousing sick people in a big building where they can trade diseases. But a slow, centralized system is far, far better than no system at all, which is what the right-wing ideologues want. You don't need 'choice' in healthcare when you're sitting and bleeding on a curb, you just need it there. (And I truly appreciate western medicine: you can bemoan the 'mind-body split' all you like, but it took a hell of a lot of technology to put my teeth back together, and I'm very grateful.)
So that's my story. It could've been a lot worse. I got my bike back; I can walk for a few hours before my knee starts hurting; I'm waiting to hear x-ray results. The paramedic said many people fracture their jaw in accidents like this. I could've flown into heavy traffic instead of an empty road. I don't believe in luck or blessings, but I'm happy the statistics operated properly that day. This is largely for sympathy anyway. And since that really only counts in capitalism once it's got a dollar value, sympathy gifts can include Black Panther: The Revolutionary Art of Emory Douglas, Shenzhen, A Travelogue from China, Absolute Sandman Vol. 1 or Wall & Piece by Banksy. Or, failing those, expressions of sympathy can also be left in the comment box.
I was cycling slowly along a busy road, trying to clear my head from another frustrating day studying. I had two options: go see a movie, or take a long bike ride by the lake. 'I'll be healthy,' I thought, 'And go cycling, instead of staring at a screen.' I went on a feeder road - one branch forked to the expressway, another into the park. I prepared to change lanes into the slower fork, did a shoulder check - and hit an unpainted speed bump. Or rather, a series of small ridges in the road, designed to slow down cars. Since I was getting ready to signal my turn, I wasn't gripping my handlebars very tightly. It took less than a second for me to catapult over my front handlebars onto the pavement, face-first.
The first thing I noticed on the pavement was my front tooth, a few feet away. I got unsteadily to my feet, conscious of oncoming traffic which I waved away. But not for too long - I stumbled to the curb, blood flowing from my mouth and dripping onto my shorts. I cupped my lip to try and stem it, which just succeeded in getting my hand bloody.
Traffic stopped. A woman on her bike told me everything would be OK, they can re-attach teeth, it happened to her - she pointed to her teeth. She said "You're in shock now, so don't worry about it." I was glad she did, because my mind was racing without going anywhere. I had to tell myself, 'Your job is to sit on the curb.' I wasn't in pain, I just felt dizzy.
Two policemen on bikes showed up. They got me some gauze, asked me if I needed an ambulance and when I couldn't answer - my mouth being stuffed with gauze - they called one for me. One officer picked up my tooth fragment and put it in a latex glove; "You don't want me touching it," he said, "My hands have been in a crackhead's pockets." They also picked up my glasses - what was left of them - and put them in my bag. The paramedics helped me hobble to the van and drove me to the hospital, while I sat still and tried to manage the dizziness.
"This is the kind of thing that makes the job worth it."
"Yup."
Hospitals are depressing places. I lay in my curtained cubicle in Emergency listening to the woman on my left throw up, and tell the doctor about her 35 years of cigarettes and alcohol; and the woman on my right answer questions about her cancer. I called some friends and left semi-coherent messages. I bit my gauze and waited for the doctor. He finally came, asked to see my mouth and said, "I'll put some plaster on that and see if we can save the pulpy parts." 'Pulpy' is not a word I want associated with my mouth.
In the examining room, he gave me stitches, glued a cut and tweezed more tooth fragments embedded in my gum, which I had half-bitten through when I landed. He suggested visiting an emergency dental surgery clinic. In the meantime I waited for a wrist x-ray, listening to a lumpen couple nearby complain about waiting for 4 hours, watching old men in hospital robes hobble by me, and getting creeped out by the atmosphere of ill-health. After an hour it was clear my x-ray wasn't coming, and I could feel the exposed nerves of my chipped teeth. (I did venture a look, and there wasn't anything pulpy at all, just a nice arc where two of my whole teeth used to be.)
I discharged myself and took a cab over to the dental office across town, where the on-call Russian dentist was waiting. "Your tooth has been split down the middle; it may need a root canal," he told me. This, after an accident, ride in an ambulance and a hospital bed, was not good news - I didn't have much energy left. "But for now we will try to reattach the pieces," he said, and did so using epoxy and a blue light tube. I was grateful - even if my dental plan didn't cover emergencies, not having a gaping hole in my mouth was worth it.
Actually, pain isn't as funny as it looks.
I made my way home by public transit. It's interesting how people react when you walk down the street dotted with dried blood and bruises. No one makes eye contact; the tough-looking guys keep a respectful distance. The next day, I cleaned up, taped my glasses and wore a wrist brace. All the scars on my face lined up like hits from a right hook. I started getting admiring glances from teenagers. People like the idea of getting into fights, they just don't want to help in the moment. Which brings me to some conclusions:
Regular readers (if I still have any) will notice my glowing descriptions of the police. The police were great: they were there within minutes, performed first aid, called the ambulance and stayed with me till it was there. They even wheeled my bike to the station and told me I could pick it up later. But Victor, you might ask, doesn't this smack of hypocrisy? After all, you've slammed the police as racist thugs. Isn't this what the Right's always on about: sissy leftists who moan about human rights until they actually need a cop?
I've never knocked the police for being helpful. If the city wants to put police on bicycles to roam around doling out First Aid, I'm all for it. However, two days later I saw a cop arresting a Chinese guy for the crime of selling pirate DVDs. It's not the nursing I object to - it's defending the property rights of businesses, and the status quo. They were great to me, but I'm white and clean-cut. Had I been black, native or homeless, they might have searched me for drugs before giving me gauze.
Which brings me to my next point: habitus, for my purposes the set of cultural behaviours associated with a class. And I got it in spades. While I was waiting for my x-ray, the lumpen couple nearby were complaining. And when I say 'lumpen', I mean dressed like it's small-town Tuesday night in 1986, voices gravelly from years of smoking, and an attitude of deference. They complained a lot - to each other. But even though they'd been waiting 4 hours, neither one asked the nurse.
After 45 minutes, I asked the nurse; she brushed me off, so I asked again; she walked away, so I want to the front desk, made eye contact and used big words. The guy at the desk came with me to speak to the doctor on my behalf. Not because I deserved it more, but because we were the same age and dress style, I'm not scared off by secretaries, and I have a sense of entitlement to good service. When I was in the dentists' chair, I could hear the secretary telling a caller, "If you're on social services, you get seen between 9am and 3pm. Otherwise it's not free." She kept repeating it. I have dental insurance; they didn't set time limits, and she was much friendlier to me. Middle class people expect more from their lives; and, from all the horror stories I hear from friends in retail, they often get it.
I value and appreciate experts
Finally, public health care is awesome. Yeah, I had to wait 40 minutes in emergency, and I didn't have time to get my hospital x-ray. But I was absolutely helpless after the accident, in shock. Public employees got me to a hospital, took care of me when I was there and I didn't need to pay anything (except for the dentist - how is dental care non-essential?) Of course the service could be better. I'm not sold on the idea of warehousing sick people in a big building where they can trade diseases. But a slow, centralized system is far, far better than no system at all, which is what the right-wing ideologues want. You don't need 'choice' in healthcare when you're sitting and bleeding on a curb, you just need it there. (And I truly appreciate western medicine: you can bemoan the 'mind-body split' all you like, but it took a hell of a lot of technology to put my teeth back together, and I'm very grateful.)
So that's my story. It could've been a lot worse. I got my bike back; I can walk for a few hours before my knee starts hurting; I'm waiting to hear x-ray results. The paramedic said many people fracture their jaw in accidents like this. I could've flown into heavy traffic instead of an empty road. I don't believe in luck or blessings, but I'm happy the statistics operated properly that day. This is largely for sympathy anyway. And since that really only counts in capitalism once it's got a dollar value, sympathy gifts can include Black Panther: The Revolutionary Art of Emory Douglas, Shenzhen, A Travelogue from China, Absolute Sandman Vol. 1 or Wall & Piece by Banksy. Or, failing those, expressions of sympathy can also be left in the comment box.
