Blesi

I'm watching Wreck It Ralph on my computer tonight and it is one of the best animated movies I think I've ever seen.  I kinda want to adopt Vanellope.  Anyways, today we saw an older gentleman today who had had a surgery on his right flank.  I'm assuming it was an appendix, but it could have just as easily been a hernia repair.  I'm not sure when it was done (he was not my patient), but it looked bad.  I could only see muscle, but whatever deep stitches he had placed were being forced out by his immune system.  I was concerned about us cutting them out as I've heard horror stories of removing stitches and all of a sudden you're staring at intestines because those stitches were the last thing holding together the fascia.

So that's what was going through my mind as we proceeded to clean and dress this wound. But that's typical of most medical minds, "What's the worst possible thing that can happen when I start doing this."  It's a destructive line of thinking if you let it hinder your actions.  However, it can cause you to think about disastrous, but preventable outcomes.  Careless scissor work can result in lost nerves, damaged blood vessels, increased risk of infection, and super long surgeries.  It's this neurotic thinking that has been drilled into our minds on the wards and in the operating rooms.  Pimping regularly features surgeons asking medical students questions like, "What happens if I cut this?  What major structure is beneath this tissue plane?"  Annoying questions, but the end product is a well-trained physician.

But this story is not about medical thinking.  That would be boring.  This story is about my own Blesi, or "wound/cut".  Kind of a weird translation, right?  Blesi, so close to blessing, is Creole for wound.  #Irony.  Anyways, a few translators and I decided to venture out and play a game of soccer with the local Les Anglaisians.  I'm terrible at "football".  Never played before.  I just want to grab it and throw it.  Shoot it.  Anything but kick it.  It's rather embarrassing how bad I am.  But, I'm done to embarrass myself when I'm in a foreign country, because who is going to judge me?  Anyways, it was a game of 6 on 6 and I offered my services for the defensive end of the field.  My size would be able to serve me well, right?  Just knock over the little kids and take the ball from them.

We scored quickly and all of a sudden the other team started taking their shirts off.  Can you say freaked out?  Did I just sign up for a game of strip soccer?  Nothing but dudes on the field...not my kind of stakes.  This was not a blessing.  This was an anxiety attack.  A wound on my psyche.  "Rigan, why is everyone taking their shirts off?????"  "To identify the teams from each other."  Whew.  That was really weird.  I mean, I know I need to get some sun on my pasty skin, but not because I got involved in an all-dude game of strip soccer.

Our team was significantly bigger.  But bigger also meant a little slower, and we didn't pass too well.  Actually I just tried to not touch the ball (a partially inflated basketball).  It didn't take long for me to draw a lot of attention.  Suddenly it became the object to fake out the blan.  I'm not quick, but I'm big and have no problems standing and letting a smaller dude run into me.  That ball is mine.

This worked well for a bit, until I started to dribble.  And by dribble I mean not with my hands which would be much easier, but with my feet.  I quickly got tangled up with an opposing player.  Apparently it's the norm in soccer for two players to basically kick at a ball wedged between people's feet.  The ball was lost.  As I braced for one last swipe to knock it from the opposing player's feet he had the same idea and our feet collided.  I dropped.  And the deed was done.  My years and years of scrapes and scratches on my knees opened up like they always do.  The blood oozed through the dirt that I had decided was as good a band-aid as any.  Not sterile, but at least it provided a little barrier.

If a white person on a soccer field full of Haitians didn't attract enough attention, then throw a little blood on them and suddenly it's a major event.  Yes, everyone, I'm okay.  It's a little scratch.  White people bleed.  And we are not babies.  I can make it through this!

So I played on.  But not well.  I'm old and running in my hiking shoes.  Do I need any more excuses?  We ended up getting beat 5-2.  It was clear who was used to playing together and who was older and slower...  So we walked back to our hotel with everyone trying to throw the blame around.  I participated when I could get them to speak in English.  It was fun and no one cared about my blesi anymore.  We are all haggard old men who got beat by the young guns on the field. #Beaten  #Broken  #Wounded  #Together  #Blessed