For my first 2012 post, I shall recount the non-running related events surrounding yet another non-running related injury which I sustained. To give context here, my family and I went to Playa del Carmen, Quintana Roo, Mexico over the break. These events occurred the second day we were there.
Leading into the actual accident, we had spent the morning visiting Mayan ruins (very cool) then doing a zip-line/ropes course (pretty bored by this, what with trad climbing and all) that involved a 30 minute ride into the jungle aboard a suspension-less German army personnel truck with our stoned-out guide (think Captain Ron, if you have seen that abomination of a film). After these activities, we were set to go swimming and snorkeling in cinotes, limestone caverns that were now filled with water. These were spectacularly beautiful, with stalactites reaching down towards crystal clear water, and bats flitting in and out of the cavern roof and surrounding trees.
So not 5 minutes after diving into this thing, I’m diving down to the bottom of the cave, a ways away from the entry point and where my family are swimming, and as I come up, I'm fiddling with my dive mask, and surface directly underneath the 2' square hulk of a now broken off stalactite/stalagmite column, head first. At first this was both painful and frustrating, but in retrospect, I doubt I would have even been able to distinguish the obstruction, being as it was, the same color as the ceiling of this cave. Regardless, it was a thunderous collision, and as soon as I swam to the side and out from under block in question, I immediately head to a rock, and perch myself up there to let the reverberations of pain subside, and ensure that I've not got a concussion, and that I'm not in 15' of water should I pass out. After a moment or two, I’m thinking, “Ok, not so bad...Don't seem to be dizzy or anything, so I’m good, I’ll just have a wicked goose-egg tomorrow.” But just as I am finishing this thought, something is running into my eye and blurring my vision, so I reach up and touch my head, and my hand comes away soaked crimson with blood.
With this new information, I jump back into the water, and swim towards the exit, allowing others to now notice my condition, since I'm swimming back with my head pouring blood down my face and neck. Out of the water I come. Everyone is getting a bit panicky, and so I try to defure things, and calmly just ask if they have any gauze, a med kit, or anything. Nope. So Captain Ron, who is not dealing with this crisis well himself, tears off his shirt and hands it to me, only to stop short, and ask, “I gotta ask man, you don’t have AIDS do you?” Nope. So he dumps a bottle of water over my head, then I proceed to begin putting pressure on my wounded scalp, which I have yet to see, with the shirt this guy has been wearing since 7am (it is 11:30 or noon) in a hot, humid jungle. Sanitary, yes? I know I was pleased.
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| This was taken just prior to our 35 minute ride out of the jungle. I look thrilled, right? |
The next 5 hours, to try to avoid all the minutiae, involved everyone around me trying to convince me that this was not a big deal, and that ice and pressure would fix it, and maybe I should eat something, while it became more and more obvious to me that I was far and away the most qualified person to make that sort of medical judgment (Captain Ron, nor his colleagues, were exactly EMT trained - At one point hydrogen peroxide was applied, but it's effects were minimal since the aforementioned t-shirt went right back on my head), but had no way of seeing this particular wound. So it was Captain Ron’s shirt and a block of ice from the beer cooler as medical supplies while we rode the 35 minutes out of the jungle, bouncing up and down in the troop transport. This was, I have to say, probably the worst part of the whole endeavor, as a bouncy ride trying to keep pressure on a wound with a hard block of ice that keeps bouncing up then slamming down on said wound, was, in a word, awful.
Around 4, we finally arrive at a place where I can take a taxi home. But no one wants this to happen, since I think they worried they would be abandoning me. This wasn't a concern for me, my still bleeding scalp being much more disconcerting, but I struggled to communicate this. Eventually, I escape the sage advice of Captain Ron (“If you get in the salt water, it’ll close right up,"…"Just go chill out in a hammock and have a beer,”), make it home via a taxi, shower, and get to assess the state of my scalp. The injury itself was a rather long, ‘7’ shape that continued to bleed with significant gusto. I will not describe it in detail, but will only say that, following my quick exam, it was apparent that the tectonic plates of my scalp were shifting independently of one another along the fault line of the cut. This is, of course, grounds for stitches. And so, nearly 6 hours after the incident, I wander off into Playa del Carmen with a vague idea of the location of a Red Cross station, to get medical attention....
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