The attack came from the right, swiftly and silently. In the corner of my eye I could see branches swaying, as if they had been disturbed. I felt a weight on my right calf. I twisted my upper torso around quickly, just in time to see the canines plunge in to my leg the second time. Instinctively, I swung the stick in my right hand at my attacker and scored a direct hit on the temple. There was a hollow thud and it was enough to cause him to let go and scamper back in to the undergrowth. I looked down to survey the damage. I could see the skin was broken quite badly, torn, as if slashed at by a razor blade. For a brief moment there was no blood, but then it came. And how. A torrent of dark red made it's way quickly from the open wound, gushed down my calf like a waterfall and soaked in to my right sock and shoe. I was told later that it took almost two hours to clean that shoe. Two hours before it could finally be rinsed and no trace of blood could be squeezed from it.
I began to hobble back towards the enclosure doors. The worker I was accompanying, whom I was ironically there to protect while he cut back the grass inside the enclosure fence, stopped me and told me in broken English to take off my sock and tie it around my leg to stem the blood flow. This I duly did, before slipping my bare foot back in to my soaking wet shoe and continuing out of the enclosure and down to sickbay.
People began to gather as word got out of my injury. Mild smirks turned to wide-eyed shock as the full extent of it became clear. In the surgery room I was treated by the on-site veterinary nurse and strapped up as well as possible. Upon seeing the cuts for the first time her reflex response was to utter an expletive. When I joked that as the nurse she wasn't supposed to show alarm at a patient's injuries she simply replied, 'But I'm not a nurse for HUMANS'. Fair point.
There followed what seemed a long drive to the medical centre in town, where the doctor occasionally broke off from his relentless joking-but-not-really-joking about hating the British by inspecting the wound and attempting to stem the blood flow under local anaesthetic. This he failed to do, so it was explained to me that I would have to go to hospital and be operated on under general.
For the first time, I felt nervous. Until now I think the shock and the adrenalin had kept me from thinking the worst, and I have always naturally been someone who believes that 'things will be alright in the end'. But of course, sometimes they aren't. I'd never had an operation before, never had to go under general anaesthetic, least of all in a foreign country.
The drive to the hospital took all of 3 minutes and I was surprised to see that they were ready for me with a bed. I remember feeling relieved that this was going to be dealt with quite quickly. Oh, how wrong I was. First there were the forms to fill in (I had begun to fill some out at the doctor's surgery, but the profuse bleeding from my leg persuaded the receptionist that I was better off going in to theatre immediately, rather than make a mess of the waiting room). Endless forms asking for every single piece of personal information. I filled them in as best I could, including my insurance information. Unfortunately, that was just the first obstacle to being admitted. Although the doctors and nurses had so far displayed complete competence, the same could not be said for the administrative staff. I was told they were unable to get through to my insurance company because they didn't know how to dial internationally. A frustrating hour passed with a confused looking man intermittently entering the room, scratching his head, apologising, but they just could not get through. The doctors were in theatre, waiting for me. I was faced with a choice of either paying R10,000 (about £1000) up front to cover costs, or just not being operated on. By this time, the adrenalin and local anaesthetic were starting to wear off and there was a dull, throbbing ache growing within my bandaged right leg. The prospect of not fixing it right away was not attractive.
And then, suddenly everything changed. I was admitted without having to pay a deposit and without the hospital being able to get past the international dialling code. 'We'll deal with it in the morning' they said. Finally, I was on my way to theatre. Or, so I thought...
In the surgery the doctor had joked that he had a meeting at 6pm and it just couldn't wait so they were going to have to leave me in the corridor with my leg hanging off until it was over. Yeah, GOOD ONE, DOC. Unfortunately, the long wait to be admitted had meant it was now 5.45pm. As soon as the doctor began to say,'You know earlier when I joked about the meeting..?' my heart sank. He had to go he said. He was chairing the meeting. A very important one. There was no getting out of it. I had to wait.
I have been in some pretty long meetings in my time. I am not a meetings person. I swear, every single one I've been to could have ended at least a half an hour before it actually did, such is the procrastination, worthless discussion and coverage of old ground that goes on. But this meeting, a meeting I wasn't even present at, felt like the longest meeting since God himself first created the Microsoft Outlook planner. The pain was now unbearable. The throbbing had given way to all out fire in my calf. I shifted constantly, groaning, humming, swearing, singing, anything to take my mind off the burning beneath my right knee. Eventually a nurse took pity on me and called the doctor for advice on painkillers. I heard him on the speakerphone, answering in Afrikaans. All I understood was '100mg IVI'. I didn't know what IVI was, I still don't, but it sounded brilliant. I wanted it to be my friend. Five minutes later, I had never been so pleased to have a needle pushed in to my left buttock by a middle aged woman in all my life.
From then on, everything was well with the world. The pain was still there, but now manageable. The doctors soon emerged from their meeting, scrubbed up and wheeled me in to theatre. There, I had to defend the Welsh rugby team until the anaesthetic took hold. Before I knew it, I was awake in the ward outside the operating theatre again. An hour had passed. I remember thinking before going in that the first thing I would do after waking would be to check that my toes still moved. I don't know why, but not being able to seemed like the worst case scenario. I looked down at my right foot, it was still there. 'Good start' I thought. I took a deep breath and tried to flex the muscles. They moved with ease. Phew.
There followed a couple of days recovery in hospital where I was fed, watered, brought biscuits and sexist magazines, and was able to catch up on some English football. The pain was managed by painkillers from an intravenous drip, along with antibiotics to stave off infection. I have since returned to the foundation where the care hasn't ceased. Staff and volunteers have been making me food and bringing me water to drink as I'm still out of action. The leg is healing nicely though and I'm glad I have enough time here to get well and contribute in a meaningful way again. In the meantime, there is quite a lot of admin to be done...
My attacker, by the way, was an adult male vervet by the name of Smeagol. He is apparently not that keen on humans and I was told afterwards that we shouldn't have been in the enclosure in the first place. The worker had misunderstood and thought we would be safe. A mistake on his part, but I bear him nor Smeagol no grudge. Afterall, I now have a great story to tell and hopefully an impressive scar to match. And how many people do you know that have been bitten by a monkey? Hmm?
The answer, by the way, is 'none', and if it isn't you are a LIAR. So there.
1 comment:
Erm, I know one...
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