My new Scar

Story time kids,
To start, let's just say that I've had better days. Those of you with a somewhat weak constitution may not want to read this first hand account of the worst injury of my lifetime.

While Knudsen and I were just getting started riding at Platte River state park I had a little slip-up and I ended up sliding down the hill and got my leg caught up on a branch. When I looked down, all I could see was the gaping slice in my leg that revealed the muscle membrane below, just like a skinned rabbit. At that point I let out quite the scream, and Knudsen was quickly on his way down the hill to see what the trouble was. When he saw, he expressed little immediate shock and started trying to put together a tourniquet. He quickly came to the conclusion that his shirt bandanna were the only available bandages. Yeah, we weren't completely prepaid for such as large injury.
In the act of ripping his shirt of his back he said "I don't really want to rip my shirt." However, my massive thigh wouldn't permit the closure of the wound... ok... ok, it was more of a problem of the nine inch laceration that we needed more tourniquet, so the shirt quickly became ripped in two and a solid tourniquet placed around my leg.
Now for the fun part, getting out of the woods. As I started hobbling back to the car, Knudsen biked ahead looking for a park ranger, or a hiker, or just anyone to lend a hand. Wouldn't you know it, not a soul to be found. Since we were thinking so clearly, Knudsen had to return to where I was and get the keys to my car to get me to a hospital. When we got back onto the road who should show up? Mr. Park Ranger.
"Mr. Ranger, where's the nearest hospital?"
"Hospital?"
"Yeah, I have sever lacerations on my leg, and am in need of medical attention."
"Uhh... well, Lincoln or Omaha."
Thanks buddy, we know that... we were hoping that there might be something a little bit closer... I guess this is just not my day.

The interesting stuff happened when we got back to Lincoln. As it turns out, the emergency room was having it's own emergency as it happened to be one of the poorest displays of medical care that I have been witness too. Not that I have seen that many, but I will give them the benefit of the doubt as my injury was not life threatening However, it wasn't just the speed at which they reacted to my situation (somewhat slow as I waited in the reception area for about a half hour before being shown into a room), it was the organization and setup of the room I was put into. It seemed like the nurse that was helping me (she was new at it) was very unsure where many of the supplies were located. On top of that, when she asked for assistance (as she should have, so I have no fault with her, and she was fairly cute, so that might have played a part of it...) the other nurses were of little to no help. Unfortunately I have to report that this all took place at Saint Elizabeth in Lincoln, which I did hold in high regard before this incident.

One of the memorable moments came when the nurse started unwrapping my wound to clean it. As she walked to the far side of the bed she finally saw the extent of my injury. She was quite taken aback from the sight of my muscle membrane and quickly had to leave the room to get some more professional assistance. I should have started selling tickets at this point because I could have paid for my stitches by the end of the night. Nurse after nurse flooded into the room for the remainder of the night to see the freak show. Either that or they needed a reminder of what blood looked like because they hadn't seen any of it tonight.

Ok, I'm not really that upset about the whole fiasco because of the doctor that stitched me up. He was very patient with my questions, and joked with me when I joked with him. His main concern with the pandemonium going on around him was: "If I panic, it makes the situation worse, so it's my responsibility to remain calm and collected." or something like that. Yeah, it sounds like a very basic professional statement, but he was very good at what he does. Shortly after the nurse assisting the stitching started asking how long the doctor thought the laceration was. His response was a simple "Go get a tape to measure it." To which the nurse left the room. Later Jenna informed me that they need to know that anyway for records purposes. I should mention that Jenna (Knudsen's girlfriend) is studying to be a nurse and was a great help keeping me comfortable and helping to explain drugs and procedures when the nurse was out of the room, which, if you're keeping track was quite often. When the nurse returned, the doctor asked for something (I don't remember what it was, I was a little preoccupied at the moment, my leg kinda did hurt) and she set down the tape to get it. A little later, the question from the nurse returned, to which the doctor replied in a terse "No, I don't." She finally got the hint, and measured the laceration as the first stitch was going in. The final tally? Twenty-three centimeters, or approximately nine inches. Quite the little gouge from a pointed stick.

Well, I got my leg patched up, and sent on my way without too much more drama, but I do have to say it made for an interesting evening that I don't plan on repeating anytime soon.

If you feel like you would like to see first hand the gory details, then you can visit them at your leisure, but I recommend that you have a fairly strong constitution to do so. You have been warned: Scar.

Oh, while the nurse was removing the bandage Knudsen had field dressed, she mentioned how well the tournequite was applied to stop the bleeding and protect the wound. Bonus points for Knuds.