Arizona Endurocross Crash Pt. 2

*See PT. ONE for the story leading up to this point.

With the help of friends I am hoisted into the Ford Transit van and Barry drives to the Hospital just a few blocks away. The guys grab me a wheelchair and bring me in, the pain is focused in my left foot, but I can feel it throughout my entire body. The front desk asks what happened and they are filled in, then we are left waiting for the next step, x rays. There must be a staff shortage tonight, no one seems to know we’re here as I lay on the floor with my leg elevated on a chair. Eventually I am brought back to get three x rays on my foot and ankle. They were asking me to move and point my foot and I had to tell them again that my ankle is dislocated and bones are broken, nothing is moving. After this I am brought to a private room where Barry, Max and Travis meet me. We sit here for an hour before who we think is a doctor comes in.

“There may be a break in there, it is hard for me to tell.”
“You can’t see on the x-ray?”
“Well, not really.”
“Can you bring me the x-rays please”

Another ten minutes and a computer is wheeled in with the images for me to look at and a prescription for percocets. No other explanation or information, just a drop off. I grab the mouse and click through the images, zooming in on my mangled bones. Right away I can identify and name two bones that are shattered, and I can tell by the complete lack of space between two joints that things are not sitting right. Another twenty or so minutes pass by and a nurse sticks her head in to the room.

“Everything ok in here, do you need anything?”
“Hi, yes we are doing ok, we just need a splint made for my left foot and ankle.”
“Oh, the doctor ordered that?”
“ Yes absolutely, once we get that we are out of here.”
“Ok great, I’ll do that right now.”

She believes me and with no hesitation takes out the materials to build me a splint to stabilize my injury. At this point I’m glad I have refused any pain medication. A clear mind is important in these situations, and I just want to get out of here so I can get home and see Dr. Secreten, a surgeon back at home I have come to rely over the years. He is someone who has my absolute trust in getting my body put back together correctly, a quick call into his office tomorrow morning will give him a heads up of my arrival. She gets my foot in position and wraps me up. It’s tight, but she reassures me that it’s normal. As soon as she is done we steal a pair of crutches and get out of there, it’s after midnight and the plan is to get back to the motel for a few hours of sleep and take off for the Canadian border first thing.

“I’m in pain, staring at the ceiling, thinking about pain.”

Back at the Greentree Inn I get helped into bed and build a pillow mountain to elevate the damage, everyone falls asleep except for me. I’m in pain, staring at the ceiling, thinking about pain. I’m thinking about how not everyone gets to experience the sensation of pain to this extreme. I’m thinking about riding, and racing, and how long it will take for me to get back on the bike. I haven’t even had this thing properly diagnosed, but I know it’s not a minor injury. Around four am my toes are completely numb, and at five my entire foot is a painful pins and needles. I remove the bandaging and splint to relieve the swelling, but thirty minutes later I am numb up to my calf and my foot is turning purple. I’m hurting. I don’t want to wake up everyone that just spent their entire night making sure I was taken care of, so I loosely wrap my splint, roll off the bed onto the floor and crawl out of the motel room, dragging my crutches with me. Now I’m outside, laying on the carpeted walkway alone, holding my knee to my chest while doing my best to control the pain and avoid anything that resembles shock. The sun is brightening the parking lot and I get up on my right foot with my crutches and go for a stroll. Geoff Aaron is up early and throwing his duffle bag into his sprinter van, and as he pulls out I make my way back onto the ground to try and relieve the pain. I loosen the splint even more, to the point that it is barely hanging on, and get back up a minute later to make my way to the complimentary breakfast room. The door is unlocked but breakfast isn’t out yet, that’s ok, I am just looking for a new place to sit with fresh scenery to keep my mind busy. I send a text back to our room letting Barry know where I am. I assume no one would be surprised to wake up with me not being there. A few minutes later trays of breakfast foods are brought out and I soak in some sympathy from the girls setting up for the morning. One of them even offers to make me toast and put a plate together for me. My appetite isn’t great, but I know I need to fuel my body so I place a large order sure to fill my plate. While I’m staring at my food an older couple walks in and immediately asks me if I was one of those racer guys from last night, they were here watching their son race his first Endurocross. I fill them in, talking slowly and breathing through the pain when needed, and give them the details of how it’s feeling at the moment. The women cuts in and says, “ You know you are describing compartment syndrome right now, every symptom of it really.” She is a receptionist, or nurse, or neurosurgeon of some kind and actual has a lot of knowledge to share. I’m able to take in about half of what she is saying, controlling the pain is taking most of my focus, and I am sure to them I seem a little out of things at the moment. They excuse themselves with a fair warning that I should get this re-assessed before driving thirty hours across the country. I go back to closing my eyes and concentrating on nothing.

In comes Barry, we exchange a few words as he fixes up a plate, the guys are upstairs waking up and packing bags, once everyone is fed we will hit the road. I fill Barry in on my sleepless night, purple foot and intense pain. Without hesitation he says “Well we will just take you back to the hospital then.” He knows I want to minimise the burden I’ve already become on this trip, but Barry has never done anything less than looking out for my best interest, and I quickly agree. An hour later we are in the same waiting room, but things move quicker today. I tell the doctor my symptoms, and he wants to do a CT scan. I don’t want a CT scan here. I know I’ll be getting one when I get home, I just want a new splint that holds my foot at less of an angle, doesn’t cut into my calf half way up and isn’t put on as tight as it possibly can be. I want this stabilized in a way that isn’t cutting off my circulation and to start this trip home. We get what we ask for.

One more stop before we skip town to pick up Pizza Hut and we are finally on the freeway. Everyone pitched in to make me as comfortable as I could get. Bags and pillows are stacked between the two captains chairs to elevate my leg while I sit back. This would satisfy me for all of thirty seconds, then I’d have to hug my knee in, or straighten it out, or move to one side or another. We put the cooler beside me for a second platform, more bags and sweaters, they are doing all they can to help, but nothing is going to make this trek go by any quicker. By midnight we are in Salt Lake City and everyone, aside from me, has taken turns falling asleep behind the wheel. We take the long way around to a hotel and pull in so everyone can catch up on some sleep.

“I’m outside, laying on the carpeted walkway alone, holding my knee to my chest while doing my best to control the pain and avoid anything that resembles shock. ”

This night is a lot like the previous. I can’t sleep and the pain is extreme. It's hard to stay silent while everyone else falls asleep, it feels like my pulverized bones have a heart beat of their own. I get out of bed before the others wake and head into the hallway, eventually making my way into the front lobby where I set up three chairs to lay across, staying there for a good amount of time. Continental breakfast ends early here I found out, by the time I make it to that part of the hotel it has closed. There is one lady packing things up and I ask if I can have two slices of bread to make some toast, I don’t even need condiments, plain is fine. She refuses, so I crutch back to the room defeated. Fifteen minutes later bags are being packed and taken out when Barry bursts into the door of our hotel room holding a sealed flat of 48 muffins.

“She doesn’t want to give you a piece of toast, then we’ll just take all these muffins!” Apparently the kitchen door beside the breakfast room wasn’t locked, and that’s all Barry needed to get us four dozen blueberry muffins. We leave out the back door and cram back into the van, we will make it across the Canadian border today.

The first delay comes in about thirty minutes. I’ve been feeling nauseous all night and morning, and the motion of the Transit van is making it worse. My pain is spiking while I’m trying to hold down the half muffin I managed to eat when I make the call.

“Pull over when you can, I need to yak,” I say calmly.

Max is behind the wheel, and instead of taking the next exit he swerves the van across the six lane freeway onto the shoulder and comes to a quick halt. That’s ok with me, as I exit out the side door and perch myself over the meridian just a couple of feet away. Sixty seconds later and I’m feeling much better, I might be able to finish that muffin after all.

Fast forward 20 or so hours. It’s 4:30am and we pull into my driveway. I get the factory treatment as my bike and gear are unloaded into my shop and I’m helped into the house. It was a long drive home, and felt longer than it really was, but the good company of Barry, Max and Travis was nothing short of a blessing. We said our goodbyes, they still had a couple hours of driving ahead of them, and I made my way to my bedroom, trying not to wake my wife Jordie. She was up by the time I entered the room, sitting up and checking on me, making sure I got into bed safely and didn’t lay on the cat. I was guilty of downplaying the accident, injury and pain to her to try and lessen her worry. She has been in this position with me before, and it doesn’t get any easier. I wanted to lay down at home for just a couple of hours before going into the hospital for what I assumed would not be a quick visit.

Tuesday morning, I’m in the hospital parking lot, laying down on the cold asphalt. My left foot is raised on to the step of my van to get the blood flowing away from my foot before making it through the doors. I’m checked in and brought back to another room to wait for the doctor. I was straight forward, saying I need a ct scan and Dr. Secreten. My pain is getting worse. It’s been two days and three nights like this, the swelling is getting bad and I don’t want to leave it like this much longer. The results are in from the ct. Destruction. I’m told the extent of the damage, that surgery is needed, and that the swelling needs to go down before any more steps are taken.

Skipping ahead to Thursday morning, the hospital breakfast remains untouched at my bedside when my nurse comes in to let me know I will be getting operated on today. Great, I think, until a few hours later and a surgeon walks in that isn’t who I expected. He starts giving me some details but I cut him short, asking where Secreten is. I guess I didn’t get the memo, but with the swelling delay earlier this week Secreten wouldn’t be available do the surgery until Saturday morning. I’ve waited this long in excruciating pain all ready, I can survive two more. I know what I want and who I want to do it, so I ask to delay the surgery.

Two more days pass. The pain doesn’t alter. The painkillers only bring temporary numbing to the sharp pain, but nothing can touch the deep, throbbing feeling of displaced bones blown into fragments. Visitors help distract, but after just a few minutes the pain spikes and conversing is not easy. Jordie stays by my side all week, she’s always right beside me through every high and low life throws our way. She’s strong.

The time finally comes, time to be wheeled away to the operating room. Jake Hodder is visiting, he and Jordie watch as my bed is pushed down the hallway and through the large wooden doors that swing shut behind me. I take a look over my shoulder to get one last look at Jordie but I am to late, she is out of site and the next time I see her I don’t know what state I will be in. I’m wheeled close to the OR room but am left outside to wait while final prep is completed. At the foot of my bed the nurse left a file folder about four inches thick with my name on it, and I couldn’t help but take a look.

Opening the folder reveals years of history on a good portion of my injuries. Not every one is listed, but the majority are there. I flip back a few pages. 2013: Patient shows several displaced fractures in right foot and ankle. Eight external fixators affixed, plates, screws, and a fused joint are the result. A few more pages are skimmed. 2012: Patient shows tears to right shoulder. 2011: Patient’s right patella is shattered, requiring re-assembling and main artery stitched up. 2009: Patient has two discs in lower back displaced on left side. 2008: Knee injury, surgery to be scheduled. Concussion here, broken bone there, I flip to the back. 1994, Patient has suffered severe head laceration and impact resulting from a bike crash. Stitches required. I was only four years old at the time of that first entry, I guess some things just refuse to change.

As I am brought into the bright and spotless room I sit up slightly, taking note of my surroundings, trying to make mental notes of everything. Secreten isn’t in the room yet so I take a minute to check things out. It’s amazing how clean these rooms are. To my left there is a built in cooler holding all sorts of unknowns. There are stainless steel counters all around the room and different machines placed against the walls and throughout. Then it seems as though the amount of people in the room double. Usually this would be the point where I crack a bad joke to my surgeon and tell them that I am going to break the record for amount of anesthesia required to put a patient out. Usually. This time I can not say what happened, I don’t remember a thing. My surgeon walking in the room, discussions we may of had, the mask being placed over my face, nothing.

The next thing I remember seeing is pure, brilliant white.

There is no pain throughout my entire body as I am standing, looking straight ahead, staring into a bright enticing light. A form starts to take shape in the nothingness above me, and I recognize it immediately. Dad. I’m standing on my own, in no pain, looking at my father above me. He is outfitted in a classic Sasquatch Cross Country race shirt, completing the look with his curly haired mullet and facial hair. The expression on his face is calm, confident and comforting. No words are spoken. An indescribable feeling of ease and warmth is transferred between us. Now sitting beside my dad is Roost, our 13 year old dog that we had to put down just weeks ago. I can see all of Roosts body as he sits beside my dad. Neither one has a particle expression about them, but they are both expressing a level of serenity that can not be ignored. I continue staring up at them, unable to move or get any closer.

Hours pass, and now I am waking up in the recovery room. This is something I have done several times before, but the level of pain I woke up in was not expected by me or the people around me. I didn’t slowly open my eyes, squint from the light and wake up calmly. Instead I tried to sit up immediately, wanting to look down and see what was causing this insurmountable pain I was feeling. It was worse than before, and I wasn’t expecting this level with the amount of pain medications in my system. I can’t stay still, I’m half sitting up, laying back down, moving side to side, trying to find any relief I can, but there is none. Throughout the years I have found ways to detach myself from physical pain, but this time I am really being put to the test. A nurse is at my side when I start to have full body tremors. I feel I have no physical control. My mind is in the game, I’m not loopy and do not feel high, but I can’t stop my body from shaking. It starts in my chest, and moves down my arms then up my neck before taking over the rest of my body. I focus on breathing, trying to separate my mind from my body, knowing that I should work on what I do have control over. I can feel the uncontrollable tremors throughout my entire body as I close my eyes and think to myself, “inhale...exhale,” over and over again. I start to talk to myself saying “Your ok” and my go to, “No pain.” For whatever reason this doesn’t sit well with one of the few people at my bedside now and she scorns me for talking, telling me, “Keep quiet, your only making things worse, just breath.” I ignore that the best I can and focus on keeping my breath steady. It feels like minutes pass as I slowly I regain control of my arms, and the chest follows. I’m still having muscle spasms throughout my lower body and neck, and the pain hasn’t gone down, but I am focused and adjusted to deal with it. Pain had never felt so brilliant.

Hours go by in recovery. Looking back it feels like a painful blur, and next thing I know I am in my regular room on the third floor with Jordie and Jake. I don’t remember being brought back, but seeing familiar faces was a relief. They had been waiting all afternoon to see me, the surgery took over four hours and time passed by even slower for them. I am drugged up to the max, and my pain level is still spiking to a ten. Occasionally I get slight relief and can crack a joke but then it’s back to gritting my teeth. I don’t remember much of the conversations we had, but I remember they were there. As always I have to kick Jordie out at midnight while she is falling asleep in the chair at my bedside.

I don’t sleep that night. I have my tablet with me and keep Kenny Vs. Spenny reruns on loop for entertainment, but it isn’t enough to take my mind off the pain. I know there are more sleepless nights to come, but they can’t last forever. As the sun comes up and the hallways come to life outside my room I am treated to the ultimate breakfast courtesy of the Mug and Muffin, my favourite diner, delivered by my brother Jordon. My appetite is low, but I can’t resist taking a couple bites and I eventually get through the rest later that day. More days pass, and the pain doesn’t decrease. I am feeling sick, shivering as if I was in an ice box but sweating like I was in a sauna. I am very fortunate to have many visitors come in while during this time. My sister came in with Mom, Ken and Nephew Teo, only 8 months old at the time. Dorcey Cline brightens an afternoon, as does Avery Lungrenn. Jake, Jen, and Kris are regulars and many more friends and family come by. Jordie never falters, and is by my side each day.

There are these small, portable cardboard urinals that you use to go pee and leave by the bedside when needed. My pain level won’t allow me to get up and crutch to the corner of the room where the bathroom is located, but nearing the end of my stay I start to make the 25 foot trek. I’ve been in here for almost two weeks and tonight I decide to get up by myself around one AM to visit the bathroom. I crutch to the corner, close the door behind me and take my hospital gown off. I can’t stand to pee, the blood rushing to my lower leg is to painful and the light headedness doesn’t let me balance well at all, better off to sit. I need to keep my left leg straight so off come the boxers as well. As I go to stand up, while using the support bar, I get dizzy and the room starts to spin. I start to lose my balance to my left side and my damaged foot touches the ground. I immediately jump with my right leg and try to get my good foot planted, but can’t keep my balance as I fall into the wall to my right. As I fall towards the ground I get caught in the emergency call pull cord, then make contact with the commercial duty toilet paper holder, ripping it off the wall before contacting the ground with a loud thud. I managed to avoid a big hit to my left side, but the jaring is enough to put me in significant pain as I lay across the bathroom floor completely naked. A few seconds go by and there are knocks at the door from my nurse. “Are you ok? What happened? I’m coming in!” “No no give me two seconds before you come in” I respond as I reach for my boxers and put them on backwards. The door opens and I am helped to my feet then brought back to bed. I fill them in on the fall while dealing with the intense pain and am given some more drugs to help. The next morning I am brought back to x ray to check for any possible damage. I’m given the all clear and my surgeon says he’s not surprised this would happen to me. Neither am I.

“Pain had never felt so brilliant. ”

Finally the day comes that I am cleared to go home. I have been pushing to be released and knowing that it is actually happening is a relief. It is great having nurses and doctors around when needed, but I’ll be able to relax much better at home. Not to mention the cats are getting grumpy without my company. Barry Rokosh is at the door as my discharge is being written, he’s just as excited as me. He even brought the van to drive me home in for ultimate comfort. My prescriptions are filled, belongings are gathered, some forgotten, and we make a break for it. I lay across the bench seat for the 20 minute drive home, which provides much needed scenery after being cooped up in the same room for so long. We pull into the driveway, Dorito the cat is in the window watching as I get helped out of the side door and am brought inside. Straight to the couch with ten pillows to set me up as comfortable as we can, I am finally home. We bench race for an hour before Barry needs to split and make the hour and a half drive back home. Being back in my own living room with familiar surrounding and my wife Jordie is the start of the next chapter of my recovery. Not much to do but take it easy and keep the foot up, but as more weeks pass I know I’ll be as restless as ever and pushing to heal as quickly as possible. That will be another story in itself.