Bedside x-rays were performed, and eventually the diagnoses came back: I had cut open my esophagus, the classic sword-swallower's fatal injury. I remember feeling a dull amazement that I had managed such a serious injury so early in my career. Throughout this time, Page remained by my side, holding my hand and talking to me, and shushing me gently when I talked too much in reply.
Nurses questioned me about my injury. To one confused medic, I struggled to explain that my injury was accidental, although placing the blade in my throat was intentional. She stared blankly at me, apparently convinced I had survived an elaborate suicide attempt.
Eventually, some nurse - I don't remember their names, now - some saint brought me pain medication. I was brought dilaudid (hydromorphone) by an anxious nurse who tried to explain that the first-time experience of using intravenous dilaudid was analogous to that of the first-time crack cocaine user. I was a skeptical, although excited, since at this point I was starting to wonder whether there was a chance I could be put into an induced coma to escape the buffeting agony in my chest. "You might hallucinate," the nurse said, and she murmured a few more warnings before the needle slid gracefully into a vein.
I sat, propped up in my cot, and waited. Moments passed, and then my eyes opened wide, and I blinked involuntarily. "This is real," the nurse kept repeating, and I started to feel vaguely annoyed that the nurse felt I couldn't discern reality despite the lovely gauzy sensation that was spreading throughout my head and body. Eventually, she quieted down, satisfied that I hadn't disappeared into some remote part of my psyche, and for the first time, the pain was muted to the same gripping discomfort I had felt the previous evening at the Palace. It was 4:30 in the morning on March 21st, and I was awake and waiting.
Throughout this time, Page waited, awake and alert. She chased down nurses when I had a question, kept my things together, and held my hand when I shivered in pain or didn't want to feel alone. We rested together until 5:30, when a doctor returned with some surprising news.
"We've decided to transfer you to a new hospital. Their trauma center is better equipped to handle your injury. A team will be here in a few minutes to transport you, and you'll be taken by helicopter." I was surprised. Cross-town traffic couldn't be that bad at this time of morning, and a helicopter ride - as thrilling as that would be, terrible injury or not - seemed excessive, like the sort of thing they reserve for people who might die unless they received immediate care. I didn't quite make the mental connection those thoughts implied, but Page did. Things were more serious than I thought.
The EMT team arrived and began 'packing me up' for the trip. I mean that literally; I was swaddled in padding and strapped to a gurney, completely immobilized from head to toe.
Page and I decided to rendezvous at the new hospital. I was hurriedly wheeled out of the ER and taken to the roof where we'd then venture to the helicopter pad.
The airlift to the hospital had a tinge of surreality to it. In my immobilized position, it was difficult to look anywhere but straight ahead, or down above my feet. I remember the doors to the roof being thrown open, and a gust of cool air hitting my face as I stared upwards at the stars, strangely visible through the smog-filled DC air. Somehow I was conscious of my height, as we were rolling across the hospital roof, and I felt a germ of terror as I realized I was being pulled against my will, with no way to defend myself if a medic should lose control and my gurney careened towards the roof's edge...
A moment later, the fear disappeared and was replaced with a new sense of confusion and amazement as I was slotted into the back of the medical copter. I understood now why a medic had asked if I was claustrophobic. I was surrounded on all sides by blinking orange lights and electronics panels; a readout suspended above my head flashed my vital signs. I could peer just past my feet and look out the rear window of the craft; I could see the receding rooftop of the hospital, then the tops of other buildings, and finally stars in the distance. I imagined that I could roll out of the helicopter, and plummet into the night air and be forgotten.
The trip took longer than I was told; eventually, we landed and the boarding process was executed in reverse as I was wheeled indoors and finally left in a waiting room. Nurses and doctors swarmed and asked questions; I answered as best I could. My neck was swollen and tender for some reason; I found it difficult to speak clearly, as my voice still had that alien, nasal quality to it. I explained that I was a sword-swallower; from nowhere, Page appeared, and offered to bring in the swords for examination.
After an hour or so of questioning - my sense of time was not very firm - a new doctor showed up, Dr. Smith (a pseudonym). It was explained that he would be the doctor in charge of my case. Dr. Smith was straightforward and very candid. After providing him with permission to speak with my parents and their contact information, he told me that I had indeed lacerated my esophagus and would require surgery to drain the wound site of air, pus, and blood. Furthermore, there was a chance that I would die of my injuries.
I should pause for a moment to say that I always understood that sword-swallowing was a potentially fatal activity. I was never under any illusion that inserting long, rigid objects down my throat and to the pit of my stomach was a fundamentally safe thing to do, and furthermore, every sword-swallower I'd known had incurred some kind of serious injury in their careers. It seemed like an accepted cost of the profession.
At that point, speaking with Dr. Smith, I had one of those uncomfortable moments where simply knowing something is possible doesn't adequately prepare you for when that thing occurs. Dr. Smith didn't mention it, but I knew from past research what the mortality rates were for the type of injury I'd received. For someone like me, who had sought medical care within the first 24 hours, I had the best chances - 75% survival rate. Every day one waited, the mortality rate shot upwards. If I'd gone home and tried to sleep the discomfort off instead of going to the hospital when I did, my chances might have slipped to an even 50-50.
Page took it badly, but she'd been been through a lot already. I felt a sort of wretched guilt for having put in her in a position of uncertainty and concern - no one should have to sit next to someone you care for, and have to honestly confront the possibility that they might not be there the next day to help carry on your shared lives. What was worse, I needed her to call my family and tell them what had happened, in the most oblique terms - I didn't want her to have to explain sword-swallowing.
In what was probably poor timing, considering our alarm at Dr. Smith's evaluation, the hospital chaplain arrived to provide spiritual comfort. The chaplain, a middle-aged black woman, smiled above me as I lay pinned in my cot. She offered to pray with me, and I accepted her offer. Page looked on in concern, and I listened silently as the chaplain prayed for my wellbeing and deliverance. The solemn mood was broken mid-prayer as the chaplain intoned, "Dear Lord, save this young man from whatever this thing is that he's done to himself," and continued with her prayer. I laughed internally; surely God had seen this sort of thing before? I knew I wasn't the first sword-swallower to confront his own mortality.
What else we discussed was hazy. As the sun came up, I was wheeled away to surgery. I remember answering the same questions, over and over - did I have any allergies, any pre-existing medical problems, and so on. I was finally placed in a room full of bright light, where strange music played in my ears - to mask the sounds of surgery? - and I was given a mask to breathe from. Moments passed, and all things faded.
I woke in a noisy room full of nurses and doctors. I was upright in a cot. Page was there. I felt better - the pressure was gone from my neck. In exchange, I had a series of tubes running from my neck to somewhere in my medical gown. An oxygen tank pumped air into my nostrils from a clear tube. I think they must have given me more drugs - the remainder of the day is unclear. I sent Page home to sleep and rest, to play with her kittens and think of other things for a while. I received news that my parents were en route from Florida - they wanted to see for themselves what I'd gotten myself into.
Finally, I was moved to my first residence outside of ER - the Trauma Center. For the first week, I would be living in the Burn Ward. I wasn't a burn patient, obviously, but there was no room in the inn, so to speak, in the thoracic recovery ward where I'd normally be placed.
The date was Saturday, March 22nd. It was the start of several weeks in the hospital.
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