I went to France and all I got was a broken ankle

Warning: this blog entry is about how I broke my ankle and my experience getting surgery in a French hospital afterwards. It's very long. Like Tolstoy long. But I tried to put in some funnies and pictures so maybe you can plow through it without too much misery. Bon courage!

The Incident

On Thursday there was a national strike that included both tram drivers and professors, so I wandered around town  instead of going to class. We were at Place de la Bourse, soaking up the sun, when Alexa and I decided we wanted a photo with the fountain.

Then we had the bright idea to stand on top of the fountain and take a jumping picture from it. Cute in theory, fail fail fail fail in execution.

As I was jumping, I didn't think about the fact that my shoes had no traction or that there was a small puddle of water on the ground right where I was about to land. Forgotten was my low calcium level and propensity towards broken bones. When you've never broken anything or gone to a hospital in your life, you tend to think you're invicible.

Well, my traction-less shoe slipped on the puddle of water and I landed straight on my ankle. At first I thought it was just a sprain - the pain wasn't constant and for the most part my reaction was to laugh hysterically. Laura ran to get me ice and we all sat on the ground stupidly for over an hour, texting friends to give me a ride home. With no responses, Laura finally took me home in a taxi, where I was promptly put to bed by my host mom. I thought I'd be back on my feet in a day or two, but we decided to go to the hospital to get an xray just in case.

The Hospital

After my x-ray at the hospital, the news came from two stony-faced surgical interns. I had fractured my medial malleolus, and I had to get surgery. At first I literally thought it was a joke, mostly because it was delivered deadpan with little to no sympathy. I had never broken a bone or had surgery before, so I started to freak out. I would go through phrases of extreme calm, laughing and joking with Laura - and then I would suddenly get hysterical and start crying uncontrollably and demanding to speak to my parents (and if you know me, you know that I never cry in public). Alternating between these two moods was exhausting. The "extern" who was helping me run tests wasn't helping either. In an attempt to console me, he delivered such empathetic gems as, "You'll have a cast and people can write on it!" and "Crutches are so cool! I would love to walk around on crutches all the time, they're so fun!" I snapped back, "Really? Would you?!" but I don't think sarcasm carries the same weight in France. Needless to say I wanted to hit him in the face.

(In hindsight a lot of people failed at making me feel better. Exhibit A: the man that helped Laura call a taxi for me. When he saw me hopping on one leg he proceeded to ask me a series of stupid questions and then proclaimed, "Yep. It's a sprained ankle." Thanks, Sherlock. Then he PUT HIS HAND ON IT and pretended to hit it. Not okay. Then he said, "It's so pretty! It's a pretty sprain!" Exhibit B: Upon hobbling into the urgent care center with my arm around Laura, a paramedic saw me and gave me a thumbs up, shouting "Formidable!" Marvelous! In conclusion French people need to work on not being idiots).

Later, I asked the ConsolationFail intern if there was anyone I could speak English to, because I needed to know all the English medical terms. He stared at me and Laura and said, "Euuuhhh...fracture?" and then, "Fracture?" except in a slightly more English accent. Thanks a lot buddy.

Because there was the possibility of operating that night, I had my blood drawn and was hooked up to a giant IV and pain meds. However, I requested general anesthesia (no way in hell am I listening to a 2-inch screw being put in my ankle) but had eaten that afternoon, so the surgery was going to be the next morning. I'd have to stay in the hospital overnight. Unfortunately, there were no beds or rooms left, so I spent the night in a small clinic room usually reserved for 10-15 minute checkups. The worst part was that since patients don't usually stay there, that area of the hospital is totally forgotten by nurses and doctors. There was no call button, so when I saw blood in my IV I had to yell "EXCUSEZ-MOI" 6 times to nurses in the hallway before I was noticed.

Also, I waited all night to talk to an English-speaking surgeon. I finally spoke to him at 12:30, hours after I expected to. He explained that since the break was inside a joint, a simple cast wouldn't be enough to set the bone correctly. They would have to operate to prevent arthritis.  They were going to put a screw in my ankle to keep the bone in place. I would wear a cast and crutches for 45 days, during which time I couldn't put any weight on my foot. For each of those 45 days, I would have to give myself an injection under the skin of my stomach to prevent thrombosis. During this time, my right leg would atrophy and I would need physical therapy after my cast came off to learn how to walk normally again.

The Surgery

Needless to say I was overwhelmed, but I tried to sleep...unsuccessfully. The next thing I know it's about 8 AM and nurses are undressing me. I think they assumed I didn't speak French, because all 5 of them acted as if I wasn't there and talked among themselves about how there actually were beds I could have used in another area of the hospital. I heard "La pauvre" (the poor thing) many a time and a sarcastic remark from one nurse - "Isn't France great?"

I have to say that one of the most frustrating parts of this experience was not understanding what was going on at all times. Surgery is terrifying enough when you've never had it, but when you have no idea what the procedure entails or what the next step is, it's that much more frightening. I was confused and nervous, but it made me feel better when my male night intern told me, "Vous êtes ravissante. Si vous avez des copines américaines aussi ravissantes que vous, présentez-les à moi." You are gorgeous. If you have American girlfriends who are as gorgeous as you, introduce them to me. It's good to know that not even surgery will stop a Frenchman from flirting. After donning a sextastic hospital gown that showed off the best parts of my bare ass, I was wheeled into a pre-op room while waiting for the operating bloc to clear up. Laura and my host mom were on their way to the hospital, but I was wheeled into the surgical chamber just minutes before they arrived. Laura later told me that they got there as they were wheeling my bed back. A nurse apparently joked, "This is her bed, but she's not in it!"

In the surgical room, a very nice anesthesiologist hooked me up to another IV, which he said was just nutrients and not anesthesia. The next thing I know I'm being wrenched out of a dream by a deathly bout of coughing. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing, just that I couldn't breathe. Soon shapes started forming and I realized someone was holding me down. I heard a voice: "C'est fini. C'était bien passé. C'est fini." It's over. Everything went well. It's over. They put an oxygen mask over my face.

Post-Surgery

Eventually the surgeon came out to talk to me. One of the hardest things I've ever had to do is speak French when coming out of general anesthesia. Everything was foggy and I'm sure I sounded like a complete idiot. He explained that the surgery went very well and that there weren't any complications. He showed me a post-surgical x-ray: there is a giant-ass screw in my foot. It's incredible. He had to explain to me three times that a nurse would come to my house for the first few days to change my bandage and give me shots. 

The next person I saw was carrying a big-ass saw that he was going to use to cut a window in my cast where the inciscion was so the wound could be cleaned. He held the blade against his hand, assuring me that it wouldn't cut through skin. Still, it sounded like a fucking chainsaw and scared the shit out of me. I don't know if it was psychological, but I definitely flinched in pain a few times when the thing made contact with my skin. Seeing my reaction, he came back later with a slower-moving modern blade that was much much better. Except, hello...couldn't you have started off with that?

The attendants in the recovery room told me I would be moved to a private room around noon. This was about 10 AM. At noon, they told me I could move in an hour. At 1, they told me I could move in the early afternoon. At 3, they told me the reason I haven't been moved is because they're waiting on a private room. As a jeune fille, young girl, they didn't want to put me in a shared room with an old man. I appreciated the sentiment, but I was approaching the 6 hour mark in a recovery room crammed with old people. I did enjoy talking to the nurses and interns during this time, though. They called me la petite Californienne, the little Californian. One attendant I really liked asked me if I surfed, because he surfs off the French coast nearby. When I told him not all people from California surf, he looked truly crestfallen.

Finally, at 5:00 I got wheeled to the x-ray room. Someone was supposed to come get me right after the x-ray, but somehow I got left in the room alone for 20 minutes. Finally the x-ray technician rolled me BACK to the recovery room, explaining to someone that "I shouldn't be left alone." At this point I didn't know what the hell was going on. I was in the recovery room for another 20 minutes (in which time I gloriously peed in a bucket in a room full of people) before someone finally took me to my private room. When I got there I almost cried from happiness. There was a window and a sunset and I could see Bordeaux's signature red roofs. The nurses were incredibly sweet and attentive. They checked on me every hour and gave me a call button, which made me feel like I was finally being looked after. Not soon after, Laura and Nicole, a director from the Center of California, came to visit. Nicole left after a bit and Alexa took her place, which led to this glorious picture:

I spent an uneasy night in the hospital, mostly because the nurses came in on the hour to check my IV or draw my blood. I have so many holes in my body from this weekend it's ridiculous. The next morning, the surgeon came to tell me I could leave that day! It was great news - I was expecting another day in the hospital at least. I was incredibly antsy all day long, especially when they finally took out my IV. Before that, I felt completely immobilized with only 1 arm and 1 leg, but now with three appendages in action I was ready to go. I wasn't supposed to but I hopped around the room and the bathroom for a bit on one leg, just so I could be vetical again. 

Going Home

In the early afternoon, my host mom picked me up with a pair of crutches and took me home. It was my first time attempting to walk with crutches and it was incredibly frustrating. I almost fell on the way to the elevator and landed on my bad foot, which is no good. When we made it home, I collapsed into bed. That night, Laura, Alexa, and Tiffany came to visit. While Tiffany was here, the nurse came to give me my first anticoagulant shot in the stomach. It wasn't nearly as bad as when I had it in the hospital, so I'm less freaked out about having to do it myself every day for the next month and a half.

So, that was my adventure with French health care. I've never been to an American hospital, so I have no basis of comparison, but according to Tiffany I was pretty lucky to have been treated right away without any questions about insurance. On the other hand, my room cost something like 1300 euro a night and my drugs are going to cost over 300 euro. Not exactly universal. And while on the whole I had a positive experience with the staff, there were several moments when I felt completely neglected. So I suppose there's no perfect system anywhere, even if France's is supposed to be the best in the world. 

Emotionally I'm all over the place. For the most part I'm calm as long as I can avoid thinking about what the next 6 weeks are going to look like. But someone will say something about traveling or walking on crutches and out of nowhere I'll want to cry. I'm trying to stay positive and fight off the bouts of self-pity, but it would be a lie to say that they're few and far between. I'm hoping it'll get better throughout the next week as I learn how to walk on crutches and find solutions to my frustrations.

Shoutouts

And now for the thank yous - I don't want to be cheesy but there is no way in hell I could have made it through the last 4 days without these amazing people.

Laura: Mickey a raison, you are truly an angel. You are the single person that prevented this experience from being completely miserable. You got me ice and called a taxi, took me home and then stayed with me all night in the hospital. You cracked funnies about hot French doctors and told stories when I couldn't stop crying. YOU SKYPED MY PARENTS. You woke up at 7 the next morning to call and reassure me and came to this hospital at 8, and then again in the evening. You brought me chocolate. And underwear. And Hanna's Daughters. And weird gummy candy. And French cosmo. You took care of everything when I was in no state to do so. I seriously owe you so so so much and I just hope that one day I can return even a fraction of the favor (but not that you have to break something for me to do so).

Alexa: You talked me into jumping and I still adore you, what does that tell you about our friendship? Thank you so much for harrassing Laura all day Friday to find out when you can see me, it means the world. I loved seeing you so much at the hospital and there's nothing like hilarious party stories to get your mind off a broken ankle. It takes a pretty amazing person to make me laugh when I should be in pain. And finally, thanks for stealing the you-know-what. I may have to wait until day 46 to use it but it'll be the best you-know-what of all time.

Tiffany: Thank you for all the concerned text messages. I know you wanted to come visit me Friday but I'm so so glad you came yesterday to provide me with emotional support and ward off awkward-cast-girl-at-a-party syndrome. Thanks for being so attentive and getting me piles of food, water, and chairs to prop my shit up on. And the chocolate. I'm excited to dig into that. But most of all thank you for lending a sympathetic ear to all my bitching and moaning, and for understanding.

Jasmine: Your call last night meant so much to me. I'm so glad you can truly empathize because you went through the same thing just months ago, but with a way more serious surgery. I am really excited to see you and Sherry in the next few days!

I'm not going to write shoutouts to the following because (I hope) they'll never see this blog, but I owe millions of thanks to my host mom and Joelle and Nicole, the directors of the Centre de Californie. They called me constantly at the hospital to check in and Nicole even came to visit, which I was not at all expecting. It feels so great to have a support network in France when you're away from all your usual friends and family.

To everyone else who wrote on my facebook wall/skyped/gchated me, thaaaaank you. It was great to hear from everyone.

Alright, my visiting nurse is going to be here in a few minutes so I'm going to get off the computer. I'll be back soon with more updates, hopefully not all of which will be about the ankle.

-- more pictures:

My legs for the next 45 days. Des bequilles. In France no one uses underarm crutches like the kind you see in the states - they're all forearm crutches like this. I feel kind of weird using them because they're usually reserved for the permanently disabled in the US. My host mom even laughed when I asked her about underarm crutches - "Those are from another era! Like Oliver Twist!" The other thing is that these are way harder to use and put a lot more strain on your arms. So basically after 6 weeks I'll have a shriveled, atrophied leg and my other 3 appendages will be massive and muscular. Hoorah.

El cast. Le plâtre. So sexy. Notice the little window where my bloody incision is. Sorry to gross you out.