Head Over Heels

He didn't know which had embarrassed him more that night:

1. Being physically unable to enter - or even desire to enter - a club alone that night [that is, without close company or the knowledge of meeting up with close company], or
2. Jamming his toe into the spokes of the wheel of his host's bike - not sure how that was possible - and catapaulting over the pedaled contraption's front onto his back, onto the side of the road and not into passing traffic.  At 11:30 p.m.

Blinking, He stared up into the night sky.  He counted the cars that passed.  One.  Two.  Three.  In his peripheral, red and blue lights began to flash, and his ears picked up the growing sound of sirens.  That and something ugly.

He lifted his head, and saw his legs tangled in the bike's body, the iPod scattered off onto the sidewalk and the cord of the ear plugs [still half-hanging from his ears] dangling from the handles.  Scraping himself from the pavement, He frowned as he noticed that he had fallen only a few meters away from an occupied bus stop.  Perhaps it was a good thing that two weeks prior, He had been pulled over and warned by the Adelaide Police to wear a helmet while using a 'push bike,' as it was the law.

He imagined the voices to come from the offspring of a Gremlin and one of the witches from Hocus Pocus and raised to compete with a fog horn.  As he edged himself away from the traffic and the oncoming ambulance, He couldn't help but notice that the boys had done absolutely nothing but point and laugh.  Yes, he knew this would turn into a funny story later, but whilst He was still in pain and under this bike and close to being hit by a car, couldn't they have waited to laugh about it later?  When He was far from harm?

He knew the ambulance wasn't sent for him; he watched it pass in slow motion.

Pushing the bike up and pulling his legs from around the bike took longer than expected; this actually gave the boys enough time to give one last final point and cackle, and board the next bus and vanish into the night.  He pushed the bike, realized it wouldn't move, and spent the next twenty minutes assessing what had gone wrong.  Fortunately, many close friends back at his college were bike enthusiasts, and he had picked up bits and pieces of bike maintenance and care over the past years.  He had learned to assess the chain, true the bike's wheels, and take apart the brake mechanism.  As he examined the bike, he noticed that the dark material caking itself all over his right hand wasn't grease from the chain; blood had been gushing from his middle finger [which he should have given to the boys who had boarded the bus] and palm.  Using his non-dominant hand, he removed the quick-release on the front tire and readjusted the brakes.  He pedaled back home.

"That's all?" Sean asked incredulously.

He nodded.  After locking up the bike [he would check the following morning for the damage done], he had gone into the bathroom and analyzed his right hand.  All that he could see was a good layer of skin scraped off, here and there, but no bone showing.  As for the rest of him, everything was still wiggling, albeit with a slight buzz to it [shock?].

"You got off lucky.  We were biking around Mclaren Vale when I had done the same thing, but that's how I broke my wrist.  Look at you, you didn't even tear your pants."

He looked down, and was surprised to find this as well.  His knees hurt, but Sean was right; no tear, no blood.  It bust have been a fairly graceful fall.

"You're also lucky you can clean it out with all of that and not get sick.  I couldn't even watch the doctor bandage my wrist; blood makes me feel ill."

He sighed, and proceeded to wash the wounds, scrape the dirt out from the gashes, and apply hydrogen peroxide [slight burning sensation], friar's balsam [incredibly painful burning sensation, and also staining], and betadine [a brown version of Neosporin].  Once he was done, his hand looked as if he had gone to the toilet which was devoid of toilet paper and refused to wash and rinse before leaving the bathroom.

He didn't think 'lucky' was the word of choice for the night.  'Humiliating' was one candidate, another was 'excrutiating.'  

It was possible these would scar, and that he was sure that he would have a somewhat entertaining story to tell at dinner parties and other social venues.  He would bear proof of certain people's inability to empathize, and he would be able to make commentary on human altruism [or lack thereof].  But the one thing that had certainly made a lasting mark on him that night was that in the moment of aerial suspension, in the moment of being lifted from the bike seat, over the handles, and approaching the concrete with his head, He knew that everything was going to be fine.  Sure, there were going to be some scrapes here and there - hopefully no fractures or broken bones - but things were going to be okay.  Regardless of the fact He was going to perform a face plant into a considerably busy street, He was going to be able to pick himself up, and move on.

Mmm.  Symbolism.

[Falling]

Malarone

For some inexplicable reason, the Boy had met an unusually high number of doctors during the two and a half months he had promised to accomplish two things:  a) learn about dance and community service, and b) avoid thinking about the possiblity of applying/going to med school.  Whether this turn of events was meant to come off as fate, symbolism, or merely good/bad luck, the Boy acknowledged one important fact:

Networking with doctors abroad proved easier than attempting to do so in the United States.

In India, the Boy had developed a most questionable skin rash that would best be left undescribed [for the moment]. After consulting with general practice doctor after skin specialist doctor - for the unbelievable consultation price of Rs. 70|$1.55 to Rs. 400|$8.88 - it was concluded that he had developed an allergic reaction to the daily doxycycline tablets [an anti-malarial] prescribed in the United States.

You could say that it wasn't the Indian food or air or water that was making him sick, but the American medicine.  Ah, symbolism.

The Boy underwent a several weeks-long treatment of pills, creams, and dietary restrictions [no tomatoes, bananas, curds, or chocolate].  Most importantly, he was told to stop taking the anti-malarials in India [Doctor Siddeshwar: "You don't need to worry about catching that here.."] and wait until his arrival in Uganda to find a new prophylactic.  Although it left scars [concerned mother: "Is it... unsightly?"], the rash's source was treated and the Boy continued on his merry way bearing a nutty brown complexion for the rest of his days in Asia.

-| "Treatment 2 of 3" or "Buying Out the Pharmacy" |-

Following the Murphy's Law so characteristic in his life, the Boy again developed a questionable bump on his skin [why this would always be the target of foreign disease, he would never understand] within the first week of arriving in Uganda and forced himself to seek medical attention at St. Mary's Lacor, the nearby missionary-based hospital.  After the long [and highly abbreviated for mature content's sake] treatment, the Boy asked some of the Ugandan doctors and nurses about getting a new prophylactic.

Their response: "You didn't come here with any prophylaxis, so we cannot give you one."

Although the Boy did not understand this logic, he was fortunate to have been overheard by Abbie, common bystander and also travel organizer for a group of week-long volunteers.

"Oh, we definitely can help you with that."  Abbie said.  Introductions were made, and the Boy was whisked away to meet doctor after doctor after nurse after photographer after fireman.  The purpose of the volunteers' visit was simple: provide free clinics, treatments, and education to those who needed it.  He watched as doctors applied antibiotics to fungus growing on the heads of babies, as firemen taught children and parents to stop, drop, and roll [how many burn victims were there because they didn't know how to put out a burning article of clothing?], as nurses tended to women who couldn't walk, and as photographers recorded children playing duck, duck, goose [which, to a degree, didn't prevent the head fungus from being spread].

"Come with us," Abbie said, packing leftover hospital id bracelets into a ziploc bag, "We have plenty of medication back at our hotel, especially ones you're not allergic to.  Hey, if you're lucky, you might get a dinner and beer out of this."

For the umpteenth time in his travels, the Boy got into a mysteriously large van full of strangers.

Later that night, he sat among the circle of volunteers, all drinking a bottle of Nile Special Premium Lager.  He listened as they spoke of the day's cases like gossip.  Although he recognized next to none of the more advanced terms, he took mental note of ones easier to pronounce:

"I mean, didn't they invent the wound vac?  And they didn't even have one?  We were all like, 'where is it?'"

"Yeah, it's bad.  I mean, how many people did I see with hepatitis c?"

"So then, she comes in and says, 'Who wants to do a triple-A?' and after a day like this, I shot my hand right up."

"And they wanted me to work on the hernia, but without mesh, I was like, 'It's going to fall apart anyway.'"

He found himself less interested in explaining his reason for being in Uganda [Abbie: "Could you imagine just spending a year doing what you want around the world?  Chris the Fireman: "Yes, I could.  So the budget covers prison bails, right?"], and more absorbed in learning who these people were, why they came here, and [of course] where the funding came from.  Some came with their mothers, some worked at Harvard's Public Heath Office, some were aspiring nursing school students, and some were just asked to join because a member from the previous year was unable to return.  Most came for the experience, to do something bigger than their jobs back at home, to give more to people who had so much less.  Although there were some funds and donations, they came here out of their pockets using their own vacation days.

The Boy was floored.  Amazed.  Jealous?  He explained how the first two years of college had convinced him that he wasn't cut out for med school, but times like now [ironically, during this year in which he hoped to avoid the thoughts of med school] were convincing him the opposite.

Victoria, one of the older doctors, leaned over and said, "Honey, you have time.  You're young.  I only realized now that giving something is so much more important than getting something."  For a fleeting moment [or two] the Boy could see himself in their place, traveling to developing countries and treating afflicted locals who didn't have enough to pay, or knowledge to prevent.

As dinner [beef steak, tilapia, potatoes, chapatti, rice, and sauteed vegetables] began, Abbie came over with a small plastic bag in her hands.

"Okay, so here's the deal.  We don't have any extra malarone, which we think is the prophylactic you should take.  You're going to have a difficult, if not impossible, time finding the prescription here, but you might have a chance in Kampala.  Lisa, our pharmacist, is sure that you can get it in Nairobi.  But why go through all that trouble?  I've decided to go around to all of our volunteers and ask for their last day's malarone pill [everyone forgets to take it anyway], so you should have about a month's worth of prophylactics when I'm finished.  As for the second month's, well, why don't we just send you a prescription when we get back?"

Lisa stepped forward.  "And I've taken the liberty of putting together a kind of first-aid kit, based on what I think you'll need in Uganda and what you definitely need after your treatment at Lacor.  I'm sure I have all of the things with me here, but I'll double check tonight just to make sure."

The Boy asked Abbie how much the package would cost.

"Hey, we're here to give medication to people who need it.  For free.  You fall into that category too, bud."

Free drugs?  In Africa?  The Boy looked at the small plastic bag packed with brown tablets.  Each pill had come from a different volunteer, donated without a second thought.  Most of the volunteers were off in their own world, eating dinner, attempting to connect to the internet, or working on the group's blog, completely unaware of the Boy's dumbfounded stare.  He imagined what planets had aligned for this meeting to happen.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear his Mom and Dad thanking the volunteers who provided  proper healthcare for the next two months.


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