junk and crap, amen

Well, I would if there were any. The gig on Saturday went great and my finger held up fine. No trauma.

I think the duct tape suit of armour I wrapped around it definitely helped with the discomfort level. That and sacrificing a bit of ghost note finesse. I barely felt a thing, although I can still feel the nerves repairing themselves when I put pressure on the cut.

Dealing with trauma is the forté of modern western medicine.

Labels: health care, music, stupidity

After my last post, I came across this story in The Edmonton Journal about Afghanistan veterans not getting needed mental health care.

Jeez, do I ever feel guilty. Here I am, eating up precious health care resources for my measly little cut finger while returning soldiers, fighting for my freedom, safety and access to universal health care (because that's really what we're there for, not for pipelines or natural resources or because the US told us to), are left out in the cold.

OK, aside from the criminal actions of the Canadian Government inside Afghanistan, when will politicians learn that if you're going to send people to die or be injured or suffer a mental breakdown because they're job is to kill people with the supposed reason of promoting democracy, freedom and our 'superior' way of life, you've gotta take care of them and prove that our system is worth the death and destruction when and if they come home.

Once again the futility, injustice and inhumanity of war becomes clear.

Is this concept really so difficult to grasp? The US has shown over and over that they are incapable of caring for their veterans properly, and in fact purposefully put them in harm's way, which obviously is tied to the insurance and profit dominated health care system there. But here in Canada, with universal not for profit health care, this is absolutely inexcusable.

Labels: Afghanistan, health care, veterans, war

So, on Sunday morning while making breakfast I managed to cut my finger. Specifically the left pointer. And pretty deeply. Deeply enough to make me want to hurl the chunk of bread I was trying to cut across the room in a fit of rage. Fucking BREAD! Anyway, at first I didn't think it was so bad, so I bandaged it up and went and did some things for a couple hours.

Back home, I had another look it the gash. It didn't look too bad, but it was bigger and deeper than I had thought. After a debate about seeking medical attention with my house mates, me being strangely on the con side (probably because I knew a trip to the emerge would eat the entire day), I took the short walk to St. Michaels Hospital, downtown T.O., to seek stitching.

So, what's a downtown Toronto emergency room like on a Sunday evening after a Halloween party weekend? Fairly - kind of reassuringly - mundane. No big emergencies; no gunshots or stabbings, crazies or DOA's. At least not that I saw. So after around 4 hours of my head buried in "Slave Species of God" by Michael Tellinger (hey, why not something fantastical , improbable and yet possible while sitting congregated with the sick and wounded after losing a battle with a loaf of rye?), I and two others were ushered into private examination rooms where I waited some more.

After some time (10 minutes or so) a medical student came in named Sacha who had a look at my finger and told me maybe stitches, maybe not, the Doctor'll be here in a minute and tell me what to do. Apparently there's a time limit on getting stitches of around 6-8 hours. I was at 9 hours. Luckily the rule isn't hard and fast so the Doc gave the go ahead for some needlework.

Alright! Let me say here that this would be the first time I'd had stitches. Yes, I managed to grow up in northern Alberta, live in the subarctic, work with my hands my entire life and travel numerous ways and countless times across the country without ever requiring stitches (I played little organized sports however, which may be a key factor). So I was really looking forward to it. I felt kinda pumped, like I was having a required human experience which would elevate my consciousness. You know?

So Sacha, the med student (I hoped not a psych major, but he never really clarified) came in and prepped the wound for stitching. First cleaning, then freezing. That was really the most painful part to date; the needle for the local anesthetic. But by most painful, I mean in an unpainful, relativistic way. All in all a pain free experience, including the initial laceration.

I've never been squeemish about blood or needles, having gone through a childhood full of allergy shots and occasional hospitilizations, and getting stitched was no different. It was odd feeling the tugging of the needle and thread, but Sacha was steady and thankfully seemed to be staying away from the booze at the frat house.

After 20 minutes and 5 stitches, the doctor came back in, had a look and proclaimed everything hunky dory. I was then fitted with an expert dressing (which managed to pop right off later at home when I removed my sweater, but hey...) by two lovely ladies of mercy, who were devastated to hear that I did make my living (or at least part of it) with my hands and sincerely hoped and believed I would overcome this obstacle.

And so, after 5 hours I walked out of St. Mike's proudly brandishing my finger with it's dildo-sized dressing as testament of my elevated status as a human being, confident of my full and complete recovery.

Labels: health care, stupidity, Toronto