Of all the ridiculous relationships I've had in my life, the most absurd is the one with pain. I was either born with -- or developed, for psychological reasons we needn't bother with in this story -- a very high pain threshold. My mother tells me that she had to instruct me to let her know whenever I even thought I had the slightness ache or pain. She says my eardrums burst when I was asleep and I didn't wake up, and there is the infamous "I think I have tummy ache" line while my appendix were bursting. A high pain threshold can serve you well, getting you through various ordeals or it can mask true pain which is usually an indicator of serious trouble. But somewhere along the way, I took this high pain threshold to a new height -- I added martyrdom to the mix. What? Me feel pain? No, I'm fine, just fine.
I'm not sure what the point of this habit is -- the desire to be viewed as tough? Nah, I've been a priss my whole life and I know it. To not be a bother to anyone is more likely the reason (hey, I thought we weren't getting into any psychology here!). Whatever the reason, I tend not only not to feel much pain, but when I do, I ignore it, hoping it will just go away -- like those sounds you hear when you're a teenaged babysitter. And the Martyr does not take pain medication unless absolutely necessary, partially to demonstrate amazing grit, I suppose, but more because I'm afraid I'll forget I'm hurt if I don't feel it upon occasion.
Add to this recipe for pitiful behavior a tendency to be accident-prone. I would have never applied this word to myself, but I'm now thinking it is apt. Long-time readers will take a moment to concur, remembering the self-inflicted whiplash on the bathroom floor (see Chronicles #2) and the car hit (Chronicles #7).
So how is it that I found myself in a Christchurch, NZ emergency room? No accident, no dramatic illness, no bizarre traveller's ailment. I simply rode the wrong bus, a bus that was really a van. A van that was really a cargo van disguised with hard benches. Benches without real cushioning. Benches that challenged even the ample natural cushioning of the big-butted. Benches that were so hard that concrete would have looked for another place to sit. And I rode this bus for hours and hours, with each stop discovering that it was harder and harder to stand up straight, a very definitive pain in my tailbone being the culprit. By the time I got to Greymouth -- a very small town -- I was nearly crippled. I was dropped at the foot of the youth hostel, the only youth hostel in all of New Zealand no doubt that had 50 steps up to the front door and 20 more to my room! I set down my suitcase and whimpered. I left the bags on the sidewalk, pulled myself up each step by the handrailing, and located the "handicapped" entrance. This enabled me to drag my wheeled suitcase up a very steep driveway instead and fellow travellers taking pity (or annoyed at my blocking the staircase) carried my bags the remaining steps to my room.
I kept thinking that all I needed was to keep moving and the crinks would work themselves out. In fact, the only time I felt good was when I was walking for awhile. Sitting hurt, lying down was possible yet uncomfortable, but rolling over was only a dream. I carried on, in excellent Martyr fashion, and waited for the pain to go away. It didn't occur to me to even take pain medication, then I'd have to admit I was hurt, I guess. The next day I rode another bus, and the day after that another, and the day after that another til I arrived in Christchurch, a city of some size (by New Zealand standards).
I was staying with a woman there from the organization Servas (more on this another time) and had mentioned the problem with the back, but still put off doing anything about it. Finally, when I was accounting my plans for the day -- which, amazingly, did not include medical attention -- she reminded me that I had been in pain for several days and dropped me at the emergency room (being quite amazed that I chose that route, which I did due to peculiar HMO rules).
What happened to me next was astounding -- I was well treated, cared for by compassionate souls, and charged a very reasonable amount of money! When I arrived in the ER, there were only 4 people in there. The incoming triage nurse apologized for the wait (an hour!) and carried my bag to the most comfortable chair available upon which she placed a pillow. Both the nurse and the receptionist asked me about paying for the treatment -- not because they wanted proof of ability to pay, but because they didn't want me to get "stung" for the cost of it! In fact, I was never asked for any payment until it was all over. The care was efficient, comparatively prompt, and compassionately delivered. I barely had time to feel sorry for myself. I was told everything that was going on, people checked on me regularly, and all staff from the person who wheeled me up to x-ray to the accounts administrator were kind, friendly, and compassionate. The doctor only did blood work and had x-rays taken because I was a traveller, otherwise she would have gone with her assumption that it was a "mechanical" problem (it was) and delivered only that treatment immediately needed. Both the doctor and the accounts administrator gave me all kinds of paperwork for my insurance company or in case of reoccurence in another part of the country. The final bill? Emergency room care, doctor's time (alot), bloodwork, x-rays, medicine -- $168.79 -- New Zealand dollars!! That's about $80 US. Oh yes, and $13 for the miracle pills, codeine (my new best friend) and super strength ibuprofen. And yes, I did take medicine to relieve the pain, but first the doctor had to tell me it was to reduce the swelling before I'd consider it. And that night I slept the whole night through and rolled over and got up in the morning with out grasping at bed edges for assistance. I had no idea of how much I hurt until I realized how much I felt better. It was a lesson in how health care can be delivered, how pain can be real, and how drugs can heal.