As Iron Chef’s Chairman Kaga would say, if my memory serves me correctly, out of the 250-odd times I have been hospitalized (such an strange word—it sounds like I was made into a hospital), I have only been in an ambulance twice. I can come up with several probable reasons.
When I was young, the town’s ambulance was driven by the operator of one of the local funeral homes. Not a screaming endorsement; you were always wondering about the previous passenger’s destination. As dedicated as the mortician probably was, it was still a bit iffy getting in touch with him, and then there was the expense of a 45-mile trip to the University Hospitals. Add to that the fact that my parents, I think correctly, felt they could get me to Ann Arbor far more quickly than an ambulance.
To be honest, there was usually no need for the dramatic speed and siren of an ambulance. The popular press, and even more learned sources who should know better, usually give the impression that even a pinprick or the slightest bump will unleash a torrent of blood, washing away whole villages and leaving the little boy lifeless in seconds. Neither my brother nor I got the normal childhood vaccinations because the doctors were afraid they wouldn’t be able to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, it doesn’t work that way.
It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint
First, when we do our bleeding, it isn’t for speed. We aren’t sprinters. Hemophiliacs are long-distance bleeders. Endurance is our strong suit. We don’t bleed any faster than anyone else; we bleed longer.
That isn’t to say that cuts aren’t dangerous. They are. But their immediate danger is the same for us as for anyone else. If the average Joe or Jane would bleed to death in seconds or minutes, we will, too. Otherwise you’ve got some time. It’s that the pesky things sometimes won’t stop bleeding that makes them such a problem.
I knew one kid who lost the end of his finger because a cut wouldn’t stop bleeding. His solution was to wrap a rubber band around his finger until it was tight enough to stop the blood flow, and then put a Band-Aid over it. A week or so later he was in the hospital (for an unrelated hemorrhage, I think), and the doctors discovered the end of his finger was very much dead. It was a reminder to the rest of us that tourniquets are not long-term solutions.
Mom, a.k.a. Evel Knievel
My most thrilling ride (“thrilling” is as good a word as any for it; it scared my dad and me completely speechless) to the hospital was in the front seat of our car between Mom and Dad. As Mom drove, Dad held a large coffee mug that I bled into. I had once again used the lower part of my face and a large piece of concrete to demonstrate some fundamental physical laws about two masses occupying the same space at the same time.
Dad had already emptied the mug out the window twice by the time we were through Saline, and I had the distinct impression the left-hand tires of our old secondhand Plymouth left the ground when we made the turn off US-12 onto State Road. I know for a fact that as we were going up the normally pedestrian-heavy section of State Street between South University Street and Liberty, Dad pleaded with Mom to slow down. Several students also had some passionate things to say to her as they leaped out of the way.
Meeting the Mortician
As for my two rides in an ambulance, I’ve already told you about the second one. The first occurred when I was 12. The year I was in seventh grade, the first time, was not a real fun year. By the time the school year was over, I had been in the hospital for all but 20 days of it. Since the state laws at the time demanded that a student attend an accredited school for at least 40 days to qualify for advancement, I got to repeat the seventh grade. The hospital school, and my almost “B” overall grade (pretty good, I thought, considering) didn’t count because the hospital school was not accredited for teaching. To give everything the proper touch of irony, the hospital school received its accreditation the following year.
Anyway, I had been in the hospital for several weeks for a hemorrhage, which, as usual, I can’t remember. The day after I came home, what started as a vague, uncomfortable feeling in my lower back had, by lunch time, turned into the worst pain I had ever experienced. As I got older and more creative, I would have some hemorrhages that would equal or surpass this one, but at the moment it was the worst. I couldn’t stand up or sit down, and lying down was impossible.
Mom and Dad didn’t think riding in our old Plymouth was an option, and Dad called the funeral home to see if the ambulance was available. To be honest, my memory begins to be real hazy here, but I have the impression of a large hearse-like car, except it was yellow with a white roof and a large red light on top. The encouraging hearse connotations were only enhanced by the driver being the local mortician.
The stretcher was brought in the front door, and the driver and Dad wheeled me out to the ambulance, which was parked on our front lawn close to our front door. I know—or think I know, or at least seem to remember—that Dad rode in the back with me, and somewhere in the area a siren was wailing. The next 30 days are rather more vague.
For those wondering, I was told I was apparently bleeding in the space between the kidney and the membrane that surrounds it. I don’t recommend it.
Read more Guy Boss at the Missing Factor.