Paper Cut
As a young kid, I naively believed that a paper cut would hurt more than a broken bone. The horrid stinging sensation bestowed onto the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening, equates to a traumatic torture session. Now before you are quick to judge, let me reiterate my mere naïve childish mentality, which lasted up until I was twelve years old and had just been released from sixth grade, free to roam wild until September once again grounded me with reality.
Summer is supposed to be a time of fun in the sun, relaxation and reckless mischievous adventures, especially for a young twelve-year-old boy. Well, my summer after sixth grade definitely started that way, but ended shortly after it began. An innocent game of one-on-one sidewalk handball quickly went awry after it was accidentally moved into the street.
The myth that your life flashes before your eyes prior to a near-death experience might be true for some people, but not for me. However, I did witness a flash; it was a huge white flash, much like that of a camera, which temporarily blinds you for close to a second. But the metaphorical photograph taken was not a pretty one. The graphic, high-resolution image of bone, skin and blood, laid out on a New York City street, was agonizing. Maybe even more so than the physical pain. For the moment, my leg was the victim of a million torturous paper cuts. Although instead of paper slicing my skin, it was a tire that cut through my bone.
What a nightmarish experience for a physically active young boy. My summer was down the drain, and I was in and out of the hospital week after week for check-ups, cleansing of my 20-pound exterior leg fixation, X-rays, and of course physical therapy. I have never before in my life been so familiarized with hospitals. They were excruciatingly annoying, and depressingly intimidating. Little did I know, I was spoiled. I was taking healthcare for granted. I was a typical twelve-year old brat.
On Tuesday August 30th, 2005, I was in the waiting room before attending my physical therapy. The television located above and diagonal from the water cooler showed non-stop coverage of victims of Hurricane Katrina, and the damage it had caused throughout New Orleans. 80% of the city was flooded, and initially the authorities did not even attempt to release a death toll. Tens of thousands of citizens were shoved into the Superdome to live for weeks with minimal food, water, supplies and surprisingly enough, lack of healthcare. Authorities were so busy in their attempt to clean up the city that crimes were becoming increasingly consistent within the dome. There were reports of looting, rape and numerous deaths.
For a moment, I was mentally incapable of complaining and physically incapable of being in any sort of pain. I was one person, who for over the course of two months had met probably over 20 doctors, physicians, physical therapists and nurses. In New Orleans, there were 20,000 victims who were in need of immediate medical attention. I was spoiled. I had the luxury of sitting in a comfortable wheelchair. I had the luxury of meeting a new doctor every week. I had the luxury of being able to push myself over to the water cooler and sip from my cup while watching the television above. I had the luxury of getting paper cuts. People in New Orleans probably longed for a paper cut, because that would signify returning to a functional society: the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening.
No responses yet