Not Very Humerus

The clinic associated with my transport insurance company was very modern and western and I felt immediately comfortable about the level of care. A Dutch doctor did my exam, then took me in for x-rays.

The x-rays were without a doubt the most painful part of this experience, worse than the seven hour excruciating drive, but at least it didn’t last as long. Realizing that I am aware of my own thresholds for pain more than anyone else possibly could be, I insisted on moving the arm into position myself. Even though the pain was agonizing, at least I wasn’t at someone else’s mercy. It was the most grueling pain I had ever felt and, for perhaps the first time in my life, I out-and-out screamed as I moved the arm, inch by inch into position. I had to have the administrator sit with me and hold my hand in the air during the x-rays because I could not support the weight of my own arm.

When the doctor came back, he told me my arm was broken, which didn’t shock me. But then he said I needed surgery. I almost fell out of my chair. "But, but, this couldn’t be right. I was leaving for Russia in a few days. If I had surgery, I would have to be laid up and my Russian visa would expire. This was the visa that I guarded with my life for the last three and a half months because it was so hard to get." I was absolutely crushed. But these protests that screamed urgently through my head wouldn’t change the facts, so I didn’t let them escape my mouth. I just asked him to show me how this could be, since the first x-ray looked fine to me. It’s never good when the doctor uses phrases like “broken clean off” and “this part is supposed to be turned this way and belongs up here.” Ouch.

Here are the x-rays for those that are interested in this kind of thing.




The readout from the x-ray almost hurt worse than the actual taking of the x-ray. Almost. I insisted on seeing the x-rays again on a light table and barraging the doctor with questions before I would let them give me morphine. I wanted to be coherent for this. He told me the break was in my upper arm (my humerus), not my lower as I had assumed. The best place for my surgery would be Hong Kong. I would need some screws put in to hold the bone together, and I would have about a four inch scar on my elbow. As I listened to him explain how I would have non-biological parts in my body and a major scar, I had a familiar feeling, like the one you get the first time your new car gets dented. This was the first time I had injured myself in such a permanent way, but in the end, I guess it’s just an elbow. It could have been far worse, as my dear mother reminded me later. There was nothing more to say, so I said, “I guess my elbow modeling days are over, eh?” He laughed and declared that it was time for the morphine.


At this point, my two angels, Liz and Kerry, returned with my bags from the hotel and commiserated with me regarding my plight. The administrator called my father and I asked her to start with “She broke her arm”, not “I’m calling from the hospital.” It’s all in the delivery. Luckily, my parents are pretty calm and level-headed.


The morphine killed the pain, making it possible to apply a plaster back-slab, which would allow me to fly. After my arm was plastered and slinged, it occurred to everyone that the shower I had been promised, after being shower-less in the wild for four days, would now be impossible. They offered to have a nurse help me wash my lower half, but I decided I could do that much myself at the hotel. At this point, the manager of the tour company came by to check on me, which I thought was really nice.

An ambulance took me to my hotel, where I called my parents, half-showered, and did a grueling one-arm repacking of my bags in preparation for tomorrow morning’s flight. Morphine might take the pain away, but it doesn’t help you sleep when you have had so much adrenaline pumping.

Before I went to bed, I took a photo of the black eye, for those that care to see it. (Don't cry, Mom.)

Wow, I need a brow wax!