Three weeks ago, to the day (I started writing on Monday but am posting 24 hrs later), on March 1 I went for what was supposed to be my penultimate daily training ride while at the Ocean Riviera Paradise. It was a typical morning on the Riviera Maya, with lots of sun, occasional billowy clouds, and a warm breeze. Just like on the other days before, I enjoyed a light-yet-tasty breakfast, kitted up, and left the compound. Like on the other days, I rode smooth, wide roads in new subdivisions, traversed established neighborhoods, and even used an unpaved dirt trail to connect my road to the bike path that was to take me from central Playa del Carmen back to the resort, which is located a few miles to the north.
The next thing I distinctly remember is sailing toward the ground, after the heavy tell-tale jolt of a speed-bump, and thinking, "Oh fuck, no fuck, no!" Longtime readers have heard me rail against the topes that one encounters by the hundreds on any given bike ride south of the border. You've seen my photos of these speed-control devices, and I have written descriptions of the various types. So, speed-bumps are nothing new to me. Believe me, on every ride during my recent five forays to Mexico and Costa Rica I was always on high alert to make sure I wouldn't inadvertently hit one of these evil things. No, I did not ride recklessly or without care, and my mind was on the ride. And still, somehow I managed to not see the damn thing—and it took me down with a vengeance.
While on the ground I took stock of myself. Shoulder a bit bruised but collarbone OK, legs seemed mostly unscathed, blood coming from the bridge of my nose where the sunglasses had taken off a bit of skin. Some road rash on right elbow and knee. No concussion. Two pedestrians who happened to walk by asked me whether I needed help, and I asked the man to give me a hand and pull me up to my feet. Once upright, reality set in: I couldn't put any weight on my right leg. It felt exactly the same way as when I had fractured my pelvis in the Hotter'n Hell road race sometime around 2005. A car with two women drove by and stopped and asked whether I needed help. Do you need an ambulance? Are you OK? No to both. I still thought, "Well, I have cracked my pelvis and there's nothing they can do anyhow." It's like trying to tape up broken ribs, you know. If nothing protrudes, well, suck it up and think about rehab and the fact that it'll smart for a while. Or so I thought...
At the resort the staff organized for a golf cart to take me back to my room; way-too-tall crutches appeared from nowhere; with obvious apprehension, guests stared at the bloody fellow gringo. Luckily, my fourth-floor room was located right next to the elevator (which had been repaired upon my urging two days after my arrival), and so it was just feet that I had to mobilize from cart to elevator and then into the room. A resort paramedic, with his comical medical hip-satchel, had appeared to don latex gloves and look at me. If it hadn't been so serious it would have been awfully funny. I was still kitted up and bleeding and told the four or five staffers who by now were milling around me to give me a bit of room so I could take a shower. Somehow I peeled myself out of my clothes, carefully crutched into the large walk-in shower, and scrubbed my road rash and got cleaned up. I knew this was going to be my last shower for quite a while.
I somehow made it into shorts and a shirt. The adrenaline started to wear out, and I started to feel uncomfortable sitting in one of my chairs but couldn't think of a better position. My original departure from Mexico had been scheduled for Wednesday, and I had arranged for an on-site COVID antigen test for Monday afternoon as a negative result was necessary to get onto a US-bound plane. So, I really didn't want to miss my test—but since it was scheduled for around 16:30, there wasn't much time to go to a hospital before general operations would slow down toward evening. I decided against medical attention, had my test, and two hours later received my negative test result.
The path to my return to the US was open.
That Monday afternoon I spent a lot of time making arrangements for my early departure home. There were the flight and ground transportation arrangements, but there was also the need to contact American Airlines to arrange for wheelchair services and assistance getting through security (twice) and immigration. I asked my friend Beth to reach out to my PCP (Primary Care Provider) to get advice on what to do once I'd make it to Lubbock on Tuesday afternoon. I was given a 14:30 appointment at Dr. Snodgrass' office for x-rays. My flight was to arrive at 14:00 at LBB—so I had to make plans for a friend to pick up my luggage at the airport since I'd have to be taken by Beth immediately after deplaning to the office on 50th and Memphis.
Speaking of luggage: remember the bike? Staff had brought the poor Ritchey into my room, and it needed to be disassembled and packed into its travel case. After all these trips I'm pretty adept at repacking my bikes, but there still are those tense moments when the question arises: Will it all fit? I asked my personal "butler," Alonso, to help me. In other words, I explained to him the different llaves and other tools and what to do with them, and somehow we managed to pack the bike in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Talk about being overcome by a feeling of immense success! Packing my personal belonging by myself was kids' play in comparison.
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| Alonso and the golf cart at the Last Supper |
I had planned my fancy lobster dinner for Monday night, and I figured this would be a good test on whether I could actually get out of the room, into a golf cart, be driven about 20 meters to the restaurant, climb three small steps, and have a multi-course dinner before making it back to the room. I'm serious: I really needed this feedback. I still thought that I had merely cracked my pelvis—I had no idea that I was about to travel from Playa del Carmen to Lubbock with a severely fractured hip, by myself, with all my luggage in tow, on the strength of two ibuprofens (expired in October 2017) and one Ultram (expired in 2002). In retrospect, I'm glad I planned the entire escape the way I did, but I also don't want to do anything like this ever, ever again.
That night, I somehow I made it in and out of my bed without passing out. Resort staff picked me up dead on time, at 5:00. My ground transportation (a van with only a driver and no other passengers) arrived 15 minutes early, and I rode shotgun for about 60 kilometers over partly smooth, partly bumpy roads to the Cancun airport. The plan started to work: AA had a wheelchair on call, somehow my checked luggage was checked, I was wheeled to security and hobbled a few paces through the turned-off scanner, and then I waited at the gate. I used the crutches to go to the nearby bathroom—that was the day's longest distance under my own power. It certainly seemed more manageable than using the head on a plane. Wheelchair down the jet-bridge, crutching to my bulkhead Business Class seat, and after take off a well-deserved Bloody Mary, and then a second one. What the hell, I thought, those drugs were expired. I won't get any booze for a while, and this ticket was expensive.
Dallas: the same deal. Crutches, wheelchair, immigration, baggage claim, baggage recheck, transfer from terminal D to B, another pee stop, gate jet-bridge, bulkhead on the puddle jumper. I had already sent scans of my luggage tags to my friend David, and upon exiting the plane in Lubbock I told the jet-bridge operator, whom I knew and who knew me, to hold my luggage to be picked up later. It's good to be known by your local airport personnel. I was wheeled out to the curb where Beth waited, and I joked we'd have an extra five minutes before the 14:30 appointment for a Starbucks....
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| A day after surgery |
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| Two weeks later |
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| Twenty-six staples that kept it all together |
This last point may have come in handy as I somehow managed to be seen by Dr. Robert Gaines, Lubbock's premier hip specialist. It doesn't hurt to know some folks in the medical field and know how to reach them even in an emergency. I didn't see Dr. Gaines until Wednesday morning, a few hours before my surgery. I found him extremely likeable as he and I speak the same language and he immediately realized that I am not a 65-year-old who had a fall but that rather I am a 65-year-old who crashed his bike. Big difference. He took his time answering my questions, asked me about my expectations, and assured me—through his demeanor—that I would be in the best hands possible.
After my long travel day on March 2, I was rolled into surgery on Wednesday afternoon, March 3, to receive a brand-spanking-new total hip replacement. Except the first 15 minutes out of surgery in recovery I never experienced pain that exceeded maybe a 4 on the 0 to 10 scale. Initially I used prophylactic pain meds (morphine and tramadol) but soon weaned myself off that stuff. On Thursday morning the OTs and PTs came by and took me for my first stroll in a walker, 12 hours after surgery. From there it has been a steady upward trajectory as far as recovery is concerned.
On Friday, talk of my imminent discharge surfaced, but I told staff that I was mentally not ready and that my friends (and thus caretakers) weren't either. We had all been planning for the initially mentioned Saturday discharge date, and that's when I got out and moved back home. On Sunday a representative from Calvert Home Health Care contacted me, and on Monday I had my first in-home PT session. Over the next two weeks I regularly received PT from Jennifer, occasionally had a nurse stop by to change the dressing of my incision, and had an aide be present while I took a shower (and later she'd perform some light dusting and vacuuming tasks). These two weeks of home health care were provided to me at no cost through my insurance.
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| David mulling some "nipple" modification.... |
Today—the day after finally starting to write this blogpost—I had my first outpatient PT session at a place called PT Today. I was able to get the services of the PT of my choosing, and once again connections came in handy. I had a very positive first PT experience, and I think that in the remaining 17 sessions over the next six weeks I will make great progress. Since coming home I have self-graduated myself from the walker to a four-prong cane to an alpine walking stick, and today I hoofed 1.5 miles in the neighborhood. I want to get back to "normal" as soon as possible, without being stupid or overzealous. There are lots of adjustments in my life right now: Even though I can do probably 90% of normal home chores everything takes so much longer than when one is able bodied. Just getting out of bed, making a cup of coffee, hobbling to the (modified) commode with the nice rails, and then taking a shower (also with some minor but important mods) and getting dressed take forever. But I can do it.
Of course, I couldn't do it and couldn't have done it without the incredible friends that I have. A really big (and continuing) thank you goes to Beth, Susan, and David. The first night at home David spent the night at my home, just in case; Beth would do that for the better part of the next week. David modified the shower, Susan has set up an app to channel volunteers into needed transportation slots for me, and Beth has been running errands for me and has taken me twice to the grocery store. Smitty had removed my bathroom door while I was still in the hospital, Kelly fixed the latch on my front door when insane winds opened it last week, and Scott and Jerred made sure my spirits stayed high when they showed up with fine IPAs and lots of time for good conversation. Rick not only took me to my surgeon follow-up last week but reappeared later that day with a huge cannister of Casein protein powder to speed up the internal healing process of my 12-inch long incision. Phone calls and texts from friends—not to mention the hundreds of Facebook messages from all over the world—have been humbling and heart warming. The outpouring of love and support continues, and I will try my hardest to show my appreciation by getting done with this in record time (at least for a geezer). Thank you, my friends!
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| Susan and the girls, Allie and Anna |
Tomorrow will be the three-week mark after surgery. I will see my PT again, and I am looking forward to continuing to improve. I'm not yet old enough to give up my lifestyle. I've had knocks like these in the past and have recovered and sometimes even come out stronger, at least mentally. It's my intention to give it my best shot, and I feel incredibly fortunate and thankful to have such an incomparable group of supporters.
