DAY THIRTEEN: I Need a Hand, Not a Hook
Queensland to Northern Territory
It felt great to be in Australia. I've always wanted to visit this country/continent and now, after 64 years of life, here I am. Unfortunately, the excitement of being in such an exotic land was dampened by my immediate need to find a good hospital that can re-attach my severed hand. Sure, the hook had some pretty nice features, but it definitely was not a suitable replacement for a good old-fashioned hand. I was REALLY starting to miss that opposable thumb.
After a good night's sleep, I jammed all my gear into my pannier, placed the container holding my snow-packed hand on my pannier rack, and set off in search of the nearest clinic.
WARNING: GROSS PICTURES AHEAD. STOP READING NOW IF, LIKE ME, YOU SOMETIMES PASS OUT AT THE SIGHT OF BLOOD
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I've got some news for you. Australia is a very sparsely populated country/continent. For the life of me, I didn't see any signs of a town--much less a hospital--from the north shore of Queensland all the way to the Outbackian center of The Northern Territory.
I thanked my God of The Church of the Great Outdoors when I finally approached the outskirts of Feeshkogoomba Springs.
Have you ever noticed how unusual Australian place names are? Towns, cities, highways, streets, and buildings have long names that require you to think about how to pronounce them. I'm amused by names like that.
I went into a fast-food restaurant for the sole purpose of asking where I could find a surgical hospital. The 15-year-old girl at the counter didn't know, so she asked her 18-year-old manager to help me. The manager said I should "go left out the restaurant's driveway, take another left at the place where an emu hangs out all the time, and continue straight on Bingajordia Road until you reach Oodahajalingoro Avenue. Turn right, and that will take you to the nearest Emergency Room. That's the place I go to every time I get bitten by a poisonous snake."
I thanked him for the directions.
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1 year ago
1 year ago
I followed Oodahajalingoro Avenue all the way to the Emergency Room. The frequent victim of snake bites was right on the mark. Now THAT dude was a great manager.
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I waited in the ER for an hour, which was about two hours less than the wait in a U.S. emergency room. It was hot in there. I worried that the snow might melt, and my hand would be ruined forever.
I became even more worried when the triage doctor told me that my hand had become atrophied and pink with flamingoitis. There was nothing he could do.
"Nothing?"
"No, nothing."
"Nothing at all?" I waited for just a glimmer of hope.
"Except . . ." It was the glimmer of hope I was looking for. "There is an 'alternative surgeon' named Dr. Charlie over on Freakazomoroota Street. Maybe he can help you."
I sped over there on The Reckless Mr. Bing Bong like I've never sped before. I was more than a little worried when I saw the address was nothing more than a locked garage.
Dr. Charlie came out and assured me he could fix my problem. He led me to his surgical laboratory. It didn't look like any hospital I'd ever seen before, but I was desperate.
When all was said and done, I was mightily impressed. There was no anesthesia other than the second-hand marijuana smoke he was exhaling, no stitches, and he assured me that I'd be just fine after a day of rest and a few Advils.
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