Dear readers, please excuse my absence over the past few weeks. I’ve been through what I think of as a “hard reset” — the consequence of a vacation gone awry.
I’ve always been what you would describe as a “driven” person. I’m constantly on the go, endlessly busy, eager for achievement and adventure. All of that came to a stop on Mother’s Day.
My husband and I had just arrived in Paris the night before and were on a day trip to Monet’s Garden. We rented bikes to travel from the train station in Vernon to Giverny.
After our visit, we were almost back to the train station when the road suddenly narrowed to a single lane. Finding myself headed the wrong way down a one-way street with a car approaching head-on, I decided to try to go over the curb to my right.
Lights out! This is where I rely on Pierce for a graphic description of me sprawled on the sidewalk, unconscious, not breathing, with blood pouring out of a gash in my head. He thought I was dead.
Later, when I regained consciousness in the ER of the Vernon hospital, I wondered if I’d be better off dead.
They didn’t speak much English, and the nurse didn’t understand the word “pain.” Using my rusty French, I asked for a pillow. There were none. When I said I was hungry and thirsty, I was told I missed breakfast. Where was I…Dante’s circles of hell?
Over the next six days in the hospital, the quality of care did not improve much. Pain management was not a priority. The primary goal seemed to be discharge ASAP, regardless of my condition.
The doctor said I had three broken ribs and a broken collarbone. He closed the cut on my head with nine staples. One of my biggest problems was terrible vertigo, although he assured me scans showed no issues with my brain.
So, even though I could barely move, I was kicked to the curb. We checked into a hotel in Paris where my condition declined. After two days, Pierce took me to the emergency room at the American Hospital of Paris.
I was diagnosed…
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