Monday, September 20, 2010

How I Survived The Vacation From Hell (A Short Story)

Chapter 1 – Three Wonderful Weeks in Dijon

The turmoil of the past month begins to subside as a bright light slowly emerges, bringing life back into focus. In the overall scheme of things, it hasn’t been such a long time. However, a lot has happened during that short period and I feel compelled to share this experience as best I can.

It all began about a month ago, on July 31st, when we arrived in France for a month-long vacation in the home of exchange partners. Our anticipation high and longing to jump into the activities we had planned, we eagerly boarded our Air France flight from Los Angeles to Paris. Our first leg on Hawaiian Air had been an easy one with the good fortune of scoring an exit row seat with plenty of legroom—always deemed to be good fortune by the two of us with our relatively long legs.

The large-wheeled belly of our Air France jet touched down on the runway at Charles de Gaulle with such grace, we felt it to be a good omen of the wonderful times to come. Smoothly we glided through customs, to the baggage zone and onto our Air France transport bus into Centre Ville de Paris. This, our sixth trek into our favorite country within as many years, was smoother than ever in light of our relative travel experience at CDG. We felt very French, capable of maneuvering in a timeless fashion, and soon found ourselves standing in the lobby of the Novatel a short jaunt from Gare de Lyon with our room key in hand.

Upstairs to our room we went, smiling at the nicely appointed air-conditioned room overlooking the entry to the train station. It was now July 31st, the day the Parisians leave Paris en masse for “vacances” either in the south of France or out of the country. We took out our clothing for the next day, watched the huge exodus of Parisians for a bit, then showered and strolled out onto the streets of the 12th Arrondissement.

We walked for about a block, not really knowing where we were going, when I finally said: “If the truth be known, honey, I’d really rather take those metro station steps down and find the train to the 15th where we can go to our favorite resto on rue du Commerce.”

“What a great idea.” My husband seized my arm and guided me into the cool confines of the 12e metro station below, quickly paid for the metro tickets to get us there and back, and before we knew it we were enjoying an apéro on rue du Commerce followed by our favorite pizza, a demi of red wine and a plate of their crisp hot creamy inside frites! Wow! Talk about contentment. We ate slowly and methodically enjoying every sip and bite before walking out into the 15e and enjoying the buzz of nightlife that was emerging.

I can’t forget to mention that we also stopped at our favorite patisserie for a small bag of the delicious crisp yet gooey chocolate macaroons!

It’s quite amazing to be able to travel all the way from Hawaii to Paris and still be capable of simply taking a refreshing shower and then going out, despite the time lapse of many zones and hours of travel. We discovered a homeopathic remedy called “No Jet Lag” a few years ago, and we swear by it (www.nojetlag.com). We took it on this trip, as we have in the past, with the same great result.

After this wonderful reintroduction to Paris, we caught the metro not far from the rue de Grenelle (La Motte-Picquet-Grenelle) and back to our room to get some sleep before leaving the next day for Dijon by TGV (the marvelous fast trains of France). Needless to say, sleep came easily and we woke the next morning about 4 a.m. already adapted to French time. It was humerous, to us, as I plugged in the teapot, pulled some of our favorite mint tea bags from my purse and brewed up some tea while we ate macaroons. Ha! Love vacations.

Our hotel serves a nice French petit dejeuner (small breakfast) as part of their room fee and it is served until late morning, giving us plenty of time to lounge around. There is a nicely lit, small room with tables spaced in such a way as to provide a more intimate setting. We were served an entire pot of steamy rich French coffee along with a pitcher of warmed cream, and we enjoyed the fresh breads and jams while sipping contently on our coffee. A small bowl with yogurt and fresh fruit topped off our meal and we went back upstairs to answer e-mail, read and relax a bit more before walking the short distance to the station. What an enjoyable, slow start to our vacation. Lovely.

Gare de Lyon was filled to capacity with fleeing Parisians. Limited station seating gave way to standing tight hordes of those watching the overhead marquee, anxiously awaiting the post of train track numbers. It was now nearly noon and the aroma of the crispy but doughy French baguette sandwiches filled the air as people quickly devoured a meal in anticipation of a period of sleep during travel. We also took advantage of enjoying our first Parisian ham, butter and Compte cheese on a baguette, soaking ourselves in past memories of the delicious Parisian on-the-go snack. Calories? As the French say, "pfft!" We're on vacation.

The trip to Dijon took us through fields of sun flowers, faces tilted toward the sun, green hilly pastures dotted with the famous white cows of France and neatly trimmed hillsides filled with leafy green vines holding the treasure that promises to become another great vintage. Within an hour and forty minutes we were greeted by our friends and escorted to the car where a chilled bottle of champagne awaited our arrival. What could be better? I can answer that: nothing!

We easily found our exchange home and were met by the parents/in-laws; charming people who speak enough English to convey the intricacies of the home to us. They had also delivered some nice breakfast items and coffee, enough to make it unnecessary for us to visit the store until the following afternoon. We were invited into the Centre Ville de Dijon to dine with this nice couple, enjoying some French culture, for a Saturday dinner (just six days hence). Needless to say, we were delighted and accepted with joy.

Our friends were having a welcoming party that evening at about 7 p.m., so they left us alone and traveled to their home in nearby Couternon, France (about 5 kls), while we settled into our new place. It was only 3:30 p.m., so we not only had time to unpack but also to retire to the nice little terrace at the rear of the garden for some delicious wine our hosts left for us and a bit of a snack. The garden was filled with herbes, fruit trees, several flower varieties, strawberries and black berries, as well as bushes of lavendar—a peaceful respite and very calm. After soaking in the late afternoon sun, we showered and readied for the party, easily driving the short distance and meeting more wonderful people of the region.

We enjoyed bottles of good wine, homemade gazpacho soup, loaves of fresh bread, locally made sausages, marinated grilled pork, and crisp fresh salads, finishing the meal with a lovely fresh apple tarte we'd brought purchased at a neighborhood patisserie (recommended by our exchangers). Of course all of this was followed by an array of traditional creamy artisan cheeses. We had a wonderful evening filled with culture and lively conversation.

As my blog suggests (www.aloveofeverythingfrench.blogspot.com), the next two weeks were filled with travel in and around the Dijon region and Grands Crus. We could not have had a more enjoyable visit and we became very attached to our exchange family and their art deco home during this period. To us the blooming friendship that arises out of the home exchange process, is the cherished aspect and a bonus to travel accommodations.

We had planned a side trip to Lourmarin to visit our dear friend. She had invited us to stay a couple of nights, so we spent Friday morning renting a larger car to drive the four-hours into Provence and also purchasing some high quality chocolates to take along as a gift. Once we finished, we decided to stop to see if I could find a pair of shoes to wear to a wedding we’d been invited to so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it during the pending week. We didn’t see much in the way of something I’d like, so we decided to stop at a department store and see if they might have something. This proved to be the wrong thing to do, a life-changing event.

Chapter 2 – The Incident

The Galeries La Fayette, http://www.galerieslafayette.com/content/votre-magasin/france/dijon.html, is a well-known shopping gallery the origin of which began years ago in Paris then spread throughout France. Most major cities sport such a store.

On the spur of the moment, and since we would be walking very near the store on our return to our car which was parked near the “centre ville” area, we decided to drop in to see if they might have a pair of shoes like those I had in mind for the outfit I would be wearing to the wedding the following weekend. It seemed like a good idea because if I were fortunate to find an acceptable pair, we wouldn’t have to shop after our return from Lourmarin.

There are several doors to the entrance of this building and my husband selected the second from the right. People were moving in and out as it was still the busy market time before the afternoon rest period. He opened the door for me and I stepped in. Strangely enough, there was an immediate step downward, something never encountered in the U.S., where entry levels are one flat surface at ground level. It startled me a bit, but I negotiated it, by stepping down to the second of three steps downward. Since this was the entrance, there were many distractions. There were metal detectors, about six across, large signs telling us of “Soldes” (the government ordered periodic sales), and also to the left an “information booth.” As one normally does upon entry to a store, the signs and general area caught my attention. I was looking left and reading as I stepped down onto the second step. What I didn’t realize is that this second step was unusually short and my size 8 (U.S.) shoe was way too long for the step. As my foot came down, followed by my second foot, both of my feet rotated downward and under me as I struck the third step and was catapulted forward in a twisting fashion toward the left.

I immediately heard the cracking of my bones, could do nothing to break my fall and I landed hard on the floor below. Pain was beyond anything I have ever experienced in my life. I set myself on my right side, facing left where my husband knelt in horror. I assumed a fetal position, unable to breathe or do anything but moan, as shock consumed me.

Within minutes (or even seconds) store personnel were surrounding me. I vaguely recall my husband calling out to a woman to please get someone to help that speaks English. Unfortunately, he is just learning French and, of course, was in a huge emotional state at the moment. Soon a very nice woman, Heléné, came. She was soothing and reassuring. She’d called for an ambulance and she spoke to me in English. Strangely, I answered her in French—this, I do recall. Funny how shock reacts on us.

It seemed like a long time before the emergency crew arrived. I communicated with them in French and they realized my injuries as being serious. They put me into a balloon splint, after coaxing me out of my fetal position, and transported me. In route, my husband inquired as to where we were being taken. The ambulance attendant responded (in French) that we were going to the trauma unit at the Dijon University hospital, and that there was no choice. “It is where trauma victims go.” He said. And that was the end of it.

We, of course, were locked into a daze and had no idea of the reputation of the hospital, the physicians or, for that matter, anything about the socialized medicine of this country. We had to be willing victims, because we had such a language barrier that if we even remotely attempted to speak English, we were met with nothing but French and a look of impatience. Even my rough but understandable French, drew looks of chagrin and knitted brows.

While I understand that it is good to talk through things that cause trauma, it’s still quite difficult for me to do so. Suffice it to say, the next eleven days—the duration of my stay at CHU—were not pleasant. The reasons escape me, since I’m patently unfamiliar with socialized medicine and it’s affect on the general population, but I can say with certainty that I have a newly formed respect for the American medical system. Not that I felt any sort of animosity or had a bad opinion previously, but now that I have a comparison with another country, I am most grateful to enjoy the good medicine of the U.S.

Chapter 3 – Post Trauma and French Medicine


My first eye opener came immediately. Although moving from gurney to hospital bed was extremely painful, it was the setting of my bones without anesthetic that gave me the first clue that patient care was at the bottom of the rung in this medical facility. Although I’ve worked through this horrible experience fairly well, and no longer wake in the middle of the night sweating and screaming one long horrifying scream, I still find it difficult to write about. Perhaps this too shall pass with time.

There are some political things that I do not feel comfortable talking about, but can say this: in socialized medicine, everyone is entitled to free treatment. However, it does not necessarily follow that the actual care that is given by the caregivers is of the same "quality." Indeed, I was placed in a ward with Romas. This migrating sect of people are not favored by France—this fact borne out by the fact that at that very moment in time the Roma population was being sent back to Romania and Italy with a one-way ticket paid for in full by the French government. From the first day of my hospitalization until I was released (at my insistence) eleven days later, I was subjected to daily and nightly screaming, yelling and arguing between the staff of caregivers and the Roma patients. I slept little. At one point in time my safety was also in question as a patient in my room began throwing objects at me trying to get my attention. I tried to ignore her as I could not understand her language and secondly I was in horrible pain because none of the pain medications given to me were helpful. As soon as the lights were turned off for the evening, I could hear her in the darkened room as she struggled with something. Suddenly I felt movement of my bed and I began to panic. I grabbed for the bell to call the nurses but waited to turn on my overhead light until I heard them approaching. When I did turn on the light, the woman had removed all her life support garb and had pulled herself right next to my bed. She had her arm resting on my laptop iMac and her IV was resting on my bedrail. She was bloody and looked wild. My heart leapt into my throat and beat fast and hard.

The nurse came in scowling and wanting to know why I was calling her. I pointed to my roommate’s bed and the nurse flew into a frenzy calling for help. They went to work reconnecting this Roma woman to her various medical lines, then turned to me to tell me everything was alright and not to worry' this despite the fact that I'd already heard them paging for the hospital psychiatrist on duty to come immediately to this particular ward.

Surprising myself with the best most distinct French that has ever escaped from my lips, I informed this nurse that everything was not okay, that I was worried about my security and that they had a choice of moving me or moving the woman from the room and that I had already called my husband and he would pick me up if they could not accommodate me. They understood every word I said, especially in the tone of voice I used, and within five minutes I was alone for the first time in ten days. It was the very first time I slept more than two hours in one night in my eleven days of hospitalization, because the nurses never came back to check on me or take my vitals. It seemed that an American alone in a room, meant no need for assistance was necessary. Fortunately I had already learned to insist that a bed pan be placed on my nightstand at night, so that if I needed to use the bathroom, I didn't have to suffer. Fully refreshed and alert the next morning and after talking to my husband by phone, I demanded release. I'd had enough.

If I were to compare the emotional support given by nurses at CHU with the emotional support given to patients in the U.S., I’d have to give an F- to the CHU staff. Again, though, I must say that I don’t know what the standard really is in France, and perhaps emotional support for seriously injured patients is not important. I do know this: I’ve been a patient in the hospital in the U.S. In contrast: nurses are caring and kind; they treat all patients with respect; they insure the comfort and cleanliness of patients; they don’t yell and scream at patients; they don’t leave patients on bedpans for hours; they don’t put medications on the nightstands leaving it up to patients to medicate; they don’t walk into rooms at all hours of the night turning on bright over-head lighting and talking to each other as if sleep is not important to recovery nor do they leave doors wide open to hallway noise of clanking carts and constant chatter, and on and on. Seriously, I had surgery on Friday night, the same day as my injury, and then again Monday. My body endured the essence of two general anesthetics and I had been severely injured, yet Tuesday at 5:30 a.m. the lights came on in my room and a pan of cool water was set on my night stand with an order from a young nurse to wash myself. I had been given morphine a short time earlier and my body, taxed from both morphine and general anesthetic could not move. I whispered to her that I needed to rest and she barked loudly in my face, her face contorted with anger matching her words in French and her finger threateningly near my face waggling in time with her anger, and all I could do in my astonishment at her lack of compassion was look away from her. Not wanting any more than my saturated psyche could endure, I forced myself up into a sitting position, washed myself as well as I could, then collapsed back onto the bed and into yet another fitful sleep enveloped by writhing pain in my limbs both of which were throbbing, black and swollen.

Meditation was my salvation during this stay. Mornings faded into dark of night, ten times and then it was time to leave. Amazingly enough, my torturing nursing staff all came into my room when it was time for my departure and it was at this moment that I realized that my endurance and cooperation had meant something to them. They had respect for me. They were there bidding me farewell, something I had not seen them do with the others—the Romas, the dreaded ones. It was quite amazing indeed. I left with mixed feelings. Did these nurses ignore me because of their inability to communicate? Did they ignore me because they don't like Americans? Who knows? All I know is that once home in Hawaii, I had experience with a highly competent nursing staff at Kaiser-Hawaii, and the comparison is like trying to compare the Waldorf Astoria with a Motel 6. There simply is no comparison.

Chapter 4 – The Journey Back Home and American Medicine

The next four days were to be the toughest. Our dear friends had taken my husband into their home a few days before, since our exchange family had returned from Hawaii. I was to spend my first night out of the hospital there, as well, to rest before our drive to Paris. My husband had arranged travel via Mercedes. He rented a European model—it wasn’t a fancy sedan but rather an economical boxy sort of model with a spacious back seat and automatic transmission so that I wasn’t jostled about. My husband thought of everything. What a horrible experience for him, yet his focus was on me and getting me home as efficiently as possible.

A trip to Carrefour, the huge market there in Quetnigny, resulted in a purchase of four large soft square European pillows with white pillow cases and a light summer blanket, all of which have proven to be true assets for propping up injured limbs and covering me during transfers at cold airports and on flights as well as making the drive from Couternon to Paris and Paris to Hawaii more enjoyable.

We made it to Paris within a four-hour period, with light traffic and a bit of rain. We stopped only once for gas and drinks. I managed to not drink anything during this trip, so that no bathroom stops were necessary. From my backseat position, I navigated us to CDG and then our trouble began. It was so difficult to find the exit we needed for the Sheraton—a large hotel sandwiched between layers of stacked entrance/exist roadway and two of the largest terminals you can imagine. We’re not quite sure how it occurred, except to say that we must have entered an area when crossing arms were, for some crazy reason, in the upright position because we found ourselves locked in the taxi area where the only way out is through use of a special card that has a bar code imprinted on it and will raise the crossing arm at its exit. We were frantic. We could see the Sheraton but couldn’t get out of the parking lot to get there. Speaking no French, my husband had to be the one to go find help. I could not walk and we had no wheelchair. He made several attempts with a car rental place, to no avail. They sent us through an area that was even more difficult to get out of, requiring us to then have to go the wrong way on an access road to get back to the lot we were stuck in. Finally my husband was able to find someone inside the airport terminal, as I sat with emergency flashers on and the car running while praying that nobody would come to ask me to move the car, who understood our dilemma and directed us to an extension to call once we were at the crossing gates. This nice man then pushed an external button that automatically opened the gates for us. We were free after an hour of panic. Once outside the lot, we stopped along the roadway, called the Sheraton, kept them on the line and had them vector us into the hotel. It was an interesting route and one we would have never found for ourselves.

Once inside the Sheraton, we were taken to a room that would not allow the wheelchair to enter the bathroom area. After five hours without access, I was beginning to manifest some frustration. We prevailed upon them to move us to a handicap room and they did so graciously. The chair fit nicely into the bathroom and I found my first bit of relief for this day. We slept well and were up bright and early to be ready to get to Terminal 2.

Our hotel provided us with medical assistance and showed us the way to our terminal (just a short walk in the interior of the hotel and a door opened into the terminal. The Sheraton at CDG proved to be a good choice for a short respite before our trip back to the U.S. because of the convenience from hotel to terminal. We found the correct lift to the Premiere status gates where a concierge awaited us. This nice man disappeared for a few moments, returning with a large wheelchair, a very nice man to maneuver it and a very nice woman to be our guide and translator. Although both French, these two wonderful people spoke English and were so kind and gentle. Madame checked us in, getting all our necessary passes and paper work, while Monsieur walked us to the airport medical facility.

The medical facility is a fully staffed clinic of professional people. In comparison to CHU, the nursing staff was kind, gentle and sympathetic (making me wonder once more about what the real standard of care in France might be). They removed all my bandages and cleaned my wounds, replacing old bandages with new sterile ones. They also sanitized the external traction device and wrapped it in order to prevent aircraft germs from having a hay day on me during my 10-hour flight.

From the medical facility we were taken to an incredibly beautiful, peaceful well-appointed lounge area. Fluffy pillows and woolen blankets were spread out for me and a waiter appeared to take our order for whatever we’d like to eat for breakfast. We were taken to a secluded area where we could relax and enjoy our meal. It was the first time either of us had been totally peaceful since the incident occurred, and we enjoyed it immensely.

When it was time for the flight, our hostess and driver magically reappeared and they took us smoothly and swiftly through customs and security. From there we were taken to a gate where we were moved from the secured area to a waiting large vehicle outside and on the tarmac. A lift brought us up into the truck that had several nice seats and an anchor for my chair. This truck then drove out onto the tarmac and across it to another area (about a 10 minute ride) where our plane was sitting, engines running. The truck telescoped upward and connected with the front Premiere section where I was wheeled into the plane and directly into my seat.

The staff immediately began stacking pillows and covering me with blankets, adjusting my seat and foot couch so that I was perfectly elevated on both feet—this despite the fact that airlines generally do not allow this on take-off—and I was completely comfortable. I had a flight attendant assigned to me and she knelt down beside me, comforting me often and making sure I was well cared for. Except for the two incidents where I had to get up and use the bathroom, it was an amazingly comfortable albeit long ride back to the U.S.

When we arrived at LAX, things were not so smooth. A misunderstanding at the Sheraton LAX meant we had to board a taxi to get the few blocks to the hotel. It was hot and very difficult for me to transfer as the taxi was low to the ground and I had to also maneuver myself off of the high curb and into the taxi’s front seat. I made it, but it wasn’t so easy. We’d made advance reservations to spend the night, thinking that each leg might be easier on us if we could rest one night before starting on the next.

This time Sheraton put us in a handicap ready room that was incredibly wonderful as far as bathroom and shower facilities were concerned. The staff was very accommodating and helpful as well.

The Sheraton staff arranged for a bus with a lift to take me back to the airport and my transfer was comfortable and convenient. Again we were met by staff who took us swiftly through boarding passes and security and before long we were onboard the Hawaiian Air flight to Honolulu. Our first class staff was accommodating and efficient and aided us along the way.

This time I refrained from drinking so I didn’t need to make that dreaded bathroom run. The biggest problem, of course, is that the doors open very little and in order for me to transfer on my left (also injured) foot from the wheelchair to the toilet, I need to be as near as possible. Even with the narrow “aisle chairs” used on the aircraft. I could only get to within two feet of the toilet, and with my weakened sore left foot I could not bear weight long enough to transfer—at this stage I still had the huge external traction device affixed to my right more severely injured right leg making it impossible to swing it around. I nearly fell during the flight from Paris, so didn’t want to further injure myself. As it turned out, not drinking anything was the right choice and I drank a lot when I arrived in Honolulu.

When we arrived in Honolulu, a huge sigh of relief escaped unwittingly from both of us. We knew that early the next morning we’d be put into the hands of our local physicians and we’d finally have a definitive diagnosis and prognosis—something that weighed heavily upon us. We didn’t even know the name of our surgeon in France and he never once visited me but rather assigned an intern (someone studying medicine but not yet a physician) to assist us. Monsieur Macroon was a very nice man from Lebanon and he spoke fairly good English, but he really had no concept of the injury I suffered and his daily rounds came at 7 a.m. with a large group of wanna-be-doctors and nobody asked me how I was, they just talked among themselves in French and didn’t really examine me. Quite interesting in comparison to the regime I faced at home.

Two couples, some of our dearest friends, met us at the airport with open arms, hugs and kisses and, of course, consolation for my huge tears that flowed readily—mostly in relief for being back on American soil where I could be heard and better yet understood. By 10:30 p.m. we were home and in our bed. A huge black cloud lifted, as we felt that this would be the beginning of recovery for both of us. We slept well.

We were up early the next morning, getting ready for our big visit with the doctor. We weren’t disappointed, either. I had been assigned to a Board Certified Orthopedic Surgeon and Sport’s Medicine Specialist all in one! I knew that a sport’s medicine guy would be accustomed to seeing the worst kinds of injuries and know how to fix them so that return to a given sport would be possible, and for this I was grateful. After four and a half hours of repeated x-rays, consultations with us, and consultations with other physicians, my doctor determined that further surgery would be necessary. At first I was devastated—knowing that I’d be set back another two weeks—but then I realized that he was intent on removing the offending external traction device (it seemed more appropriate for a 400 pound gorilla than for a slight-framed woman like me) and that he also noted some problems with the manner of repair from the first two surgeries.

Chapter 5 – American Medicine Stands Alone

So, Friday morning, two weeks after injury, there I was: prepped and waiting in the surgery center for my surgeon. What was to be a quick 45-minute surgery turned out to be a three-hour surgery, with my surgeon and another orthopedic surgeon working together to fix me. Not only did they find a nail that had been driven into the joint and through the cartilage in the joint of my right blown out ankle, they also found that the anklebone had not been set anatomically atop the joint. Also, there were many bone fragments that had not been attended to and an infectious process had begun around some of the other hardware that had been installed. Clearly my stitches were infected as well. I’m quite sure that since they didn’t change my initial bandages for over three days following my initial surgery in France, that the infection was inevitable. All of this explained why I was in such pain for two weeks. Once my physician cleaned up the area and inserted a plate to stabilize the fractures, stapled me up and put a splint on my right leg, my pain dropped from a constant level eight to a level five and then steadily afterward it moved down. With only minor exception, I’m now pain free.

The most amazing part of this hospitalization, though, was the comparison of care between the two medical systems (French v. American), for which I must say with certainty there is no comparison. Not only did the French hospital fail to provide any privacy for patients, e.g., no modesty curtains separating beds, no curtains on windows, doors left wide open while using bed pans and bathing, but they didn’t even have air conditioning for patient comfort nor did they have screens on the windows. There is a huge problem with mosquitoes in Dijon and with windows left wide open day and night, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes. I looked like I had chicken pox, with bites all over my face, neck, arms and feet. My husband bought some repellant at a local homeopathic store and I would smear it on me at night, but it didn’t stop the mosquitoes from swarming and buzzing around my ears all night long, preventing me from needed rest.

Furthermore, at our beautiful Moanalua Kaiser-Hawaii hospital, I was put into a private room, beautifully painted and decorated, with air conditioning and a lovely view of the mountainside. The nurses were always friendly, patient and compassionate. They were quiet as they walked in the hallway and the minute called, they responded—and, I might add, never did they make me feel like I was imposing by calling them. They cleaned the room daily, changed bandages, bathed me, and attended to my every emotional need—even stroking me and comforting me when I felt so bad that I cried. This kind of loving care resulted in a short hospitalization for me and I was out within a couple of days. I still think strongly that the emotional aspects of trauma can be just as debilitating as the physical aspects and that if left untreated, emotional trauma can be very bad and can delay the healing process.

Ten days post-surgery, I was placed in a hard cast. I’ll wear this cast for three weeks and then it will be time for a re-evaluation. If all goes well, I’ll be placed in a walking cast. Daily soaks with Epson’s salts have helped my left ankle sprain and although it is still tender, I can see a great deal less swelling and discoloration. My range of motion is improving as I work with it daily. I have high hopes for good healing and function and am currently looking forward to a lengthy period of physical therapy and rehabilitation.

I think it will be a while before I’m ready to travel to France again. I know we shall return because we do love it there, but I’m wondering if I should change the name of my blog from A Love Of Everything French to perhaps The Things I Love About France. I’m not quite ready to say that the French medical system is the best in the world.

I do hope that by reading this short nonfictional account of what can happen on vacation, others will be wise and purchase travel insurance that not only covers the cost of an unexpected first class ticket home, but the cost of all the other expenses such as hotel, car rental, medical costs and the like that accompany such an injury.

We had to eat the cost of our return flight on Air France. That was painful enough. We also had to pay $9,000 each to return home in first class because my doctor said no elevation of the leg means no travel. So, $18,000 in unexpected air travel, combined with the fact that we’d already purchased our fast train tickets to CDG and had to lose that money and in turn rent a car to take us to Paris, combined with the necessity of a first class trip form LAX to Honolulu on Hawaiian Air and a hotel stay in Paris as well as LAX, meant a huge unexpected expense for us. What really burned us the most, though, was that there were five other empty seats in first class. Only one other person, besides the two of us, sat in the eight first class seats. We still wonder how Air France could have been so cruel to us. We’ve been good and constant customers, taking six other trips—all on Air France—including two flights last year. We weren’t treated at all like valued customers. In fact, they charged another $100 to us because we moved from our economy seats into first class and they wouldn’t even waive that fee. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong, but it just really seems to be very unfriendly. If first class had been full, I can understand. But it wasn’t and I had no choice in the matter. It was either I elevate or I couldn’t come home. As it turned out, the necessity of another surgery would have been disastrous if I had been forced to wait to travel later. My surgeon said my results would be best the nearest in time to the incident. So while my prognosis is good, if I had waited any longer, it might not have been so. I'll update this post later. I wrote an appeal letter to Air France to see if they might show a little compassion and refund the $18,000 plus $100 fee and reissue vouchers for the two return flights we lost (another $2200 value) to be used at a later date. It seems to me that it would be unconscionable for them not to be accommodating, under the circumstances. We shall see.

So that’s it: My vacation from hell, so to speak. If anything is to be gained from this, it is that one must always take precaution when traveling. Not only in insuring one’s own safety regarding traps for the unwary, but also in taking out a policy of insurance that, if anything, will provide some peace of mind.

2 comments:

  1. Lennie,
    I am so sorry to hear about your injury. As a US citizen married to a Frenchman, I see little distinct differences every time we visit France and can understand how miserable you were treated. To them, you were just another foreigner. Even the French people have to purchase additional insurance to get better care. In France, I remind myself that the customer (even French ones) are always wrong. Safety considerations and concerns are not the norm. How are you feeling now? I hope much better and look forward to reading more of your work.

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  2. Thank you so much for your kind words. Our french friends are keeping tabs on me and are still horrified by the care given to me by the University hospital. Unfortunately, that care has resulted in a very long and tedious recovery. My drive is strong, though, and my goal and that of my trainer is to get me upright again. Happy Holidays, Lennie

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