WHAT NOT TO DO PREPARING FOR A MAJOR TRIP
Day T-51 ... February 19, 2015 ... Waikoloa
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I went for a walk on this lovely morning - a walk I've done many times before. The first 25 minutes were great as I moved along the sidewalk at my routine 16.5-17 minute mile pace. Being infected with what Janet refers to as "testosterone poisoning" I proudly maintained this pace for the next several minutes first across the sand of A Beach and then onto the trail toward the Hilton Hotel.
About a third of the way across the trail I strode up a small outcropping, nodded to someone nearby, and stepped over the edge of the pahoihoi lava outcropping - not onto stair-step rocks that had been there in the past - but into a basin 30-36 inches deep - now diving rather than walking. (Proof positive that pride does indeed come before the fall).
With bloodied legs, a bruise on the side of my head, and a pretty obviously broken wrist, the fellow I'd nodded at transformed to a Good Samaritan. With his aid, the soon arrival of daughter Kelly and her friend Jarrad, a pair of helpful lifeguards, and then a team of three EMTs, I was moved, cleaned up a bit, and loaded in the car for Janet to schlep me up to the hospital in Waimea. Several hours later my leg was scrubbed and my wrist diagnosed as broken - and then was sent down the hall to the orthopedic clinic for further consultation.
The doctor gave me three options - fly home the next day for surgery, fly over to Honolulu for surgery, or show up the next day and he would do surgery. After quizzing his credentials, I opted for number three - and at noon the next day he operated and by that evening I was sharing a "tasty glass of water" with our friends the McCathy's who'd just arrived that afternoon.
Update: The recovery was pegged at six weeks which just happened to be three days shy of our projected departure. That turned out to be accurate and now, after the trip, I'm as close to fully recovered as I'll ever be. It feels as if the left wrist is at least at 95% of the right.
About a third of the way across the trail I strode up a small outcropping, nodded to someone nearby, and stepped over the edge of the pahoihoi lava outcropping - not onto stair-step rocks that had been there in the past - but into a basin 30-36 inches deep - now diving rather than walking. (Proof positive that pride does indeed come before the fall).
With bloodied legs, a bruise on the side of my head, and a pretty obviously broken wrist, the fellow I'd nodded at transformed to a Good Samaritan. With his aid, the soon arrival of daughter Kelly and her friend Jarrad, a pair of helpful lifeguards, and then a team of three EMTs, I was moved, cleaned up a bit, and loaded in the car for Janet to schlep me up to the hospital in Waimea. Several hours later my leg was scrubbed and my wrist diagnosed as broken - and then was sent down the hall to the orthopedic clinic for further consultation.
The doctor gave me three options - fly home the next day for surgery, fly over to Honolulu for surgery, or show up the next day and he would do surgery. After quizzing his credentials, I opted for number three - and at noon the next day he operated and by that evening I was sharing a "tasty glass of water" with our friends the McCathy's who'd just arrived that afternoon.
Update: The recovery was pegged at six weeks which just happened to be three days shy of our projected departure. That turned out to be accurate and now, after the trip, I'm as close to fully recovered as I'll ever be. It feels as if the left wrist is at least at 95% of the right.