(Start Here)
Sunday morning I wake up and observe the leakage from my ear. It’s not as bad. I ponder the old joke, “Q: How do you know when your Harley needs oil? A: It stops leaking.” It’s going to be a long day.
Fully-developed bruise and surly expression: Fight Club!
While I was asleep I had a horrible nightmare, probably based on my experiences in the Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles back in the 80s – in which you go from one line to another only to be told you’re in the wrong line, endlessly repeated. In my dream I called the jaw specialist and when they got a look at me they said, “your skull is cracked; we can’t do anything until that’s healed.” And the neurosurgeon, of course, said, “come back when your jaw is fixed!” and gave me the phone number of a jaw surgeon and told me their office was closed until January but they’d be back January 1st and to just try not to chew until then.
After some thinking I decide I really should update my parents. Usually, in the Ranum family, nobody shares information until someone is dead. So instead of getting a call like, “your cousin is sick” it’s “the funeral is on wednesday.” I don’t really like that tradition so I try to break it.
I explain the whole situation with the specialists and whatnot and my dad suggests that they could come and get me and that I could go to Hopkins. What a brilliant idea! Hopkins is where the doctors are! It’s in a huge city that never closes! They may have specialists that are open on sundays! (hint: nope) I double-check with Robin who also thinks it’s a good idea, then I call a limo company and book a ride to Baltimore.
My driver is pretty awesome. I explain to him that I have a broken jaw and am not feeling chatty. He asks if I’d mind if he put on some music and he puts on The Rolling Stones. The whole way. 3 hours. Actually, it’s great because I doze and dream and think about the amazing fusion of blues and rock that The Stones have accomplished, and how odd and wonderful that it came from industrial England instead of the deep south and…. Zzz….
I worked at Hopkins in the 1980s. It’s a wonderful place and the original hospital building (above) is truly beautiful. I felt like I was coming home.
I get to Hopkins, check in around 1:00pm, and wait. Immediately upon mentioning the leakage from my ear, the nurse performs a basic neurological assessment. She explains that it could be several things leaking and that it’s actually fairly normal for this kind of thing. They take a sample of the stuff coming from my ear and send it to histology to see whether it’s CSF and queue me for a more detailed CT scan, etc. I feel like things are turning around. Every single nurse from Hopkins performs a basic neurological assessment on me the first time they talk to me. This is comforting, really.
They come back and tell me that it’s just blood, not CSF, and that my skull is OK and I just have a nasty broken jaw. It’s something that happens a lot and is a well-known problem. It’s going to suck but it’s not a huge life-threatening disaster any more. Also, I can now take painkillers.
Things are turning around, mostly. I get scheduled to meet with a specialist on Tuesday. His credentials are amazing. This is going to be an assessment meeting. I go home to my parents’, eat some of Trader Joe’s awesome tomato/red pepper soup and wash down a percocet and that’s the end of my day.
A couple of thoughts: It’s clear that the nurses are the people who run the medical world and I’m actually quite glad of it. I guess it makes sense for there to be specialization of expertise in some roles and broad expertise in others. Everyone I talk to is switched-on and smart and educated and caring. The vast majority of them are women. Other than the fact that it probably points to severe gender inequality (?) at the upper end of the medical field, I find it comforting.