I’m lying on my back on a gurney in the back of a Cessna when I hear my husband say “The gas gauge reads empty,” “No, no,” the pilot replies, “See how the needle is jumping? That means we have about 20 minutes of fuel left.” “How far is it to Nairobi?” my husband says. “We’ll be there in 17 minutes.”
|At Everest Base Camp|
Twenty eight years ago my husband and I visited Kenya. We’d saved our money, sold the car, and gone on the road. One way tickets for $769 from Korean Airlines gave us stopovers in Japan, Korea and Taiwan before we landed in Hong Kong. From there, overland through China, Tibet and Nepal where we trekked in the Himalayas, moving on to Burma and Thailand with the goal of Christmas on the beach. In Rangoon we decided against paying $26 for the one remaining hotel room in the city, instead opting to sleep in a courtyard of a hostel with a bunch of other backpackers. A big open room-a room devoid of mosquito nets.
|Beach, Similan Islands|
A couple of weeks later, after sailing to the Similan Islands off the coast of Thailand, my husband developed feelings of seasickness that wouldn't go away. On Christmas Day he was admitted to a little private hospital in Phuket after spiking a fever of 42 degrees. The only person in the hospital who spoke English was the lab tech. “Your husband has 7 malarial parasites per 1000 red blood cells.” “Is that bad?” I asked. He laughed. “Ten is fatal.”
A few weeks later we flew back to Canada where we lived in my in-laws'
basement. My husband regained some of the twenty-five or so pound he lost. Every now and then we went out to watch a movie. One night
we saw Out of Africa. We were restless and flew to England where we toured around and spent a lot of
money being bored and cold. I kept thinking of Out
of Africa. At my insistence we booked a really cheap flight with Air Sudan
to Nairobi. It’s the only plane I’ve ever seen with graffiti on the inside. The
seats were so old they had no padding left. For a bit we were stuck on the
runway in a sand storm in Cairo, then left on the tarmac in Khartoum surrounded
by soldiers with guns
trained on us. It was not Asia.
Early the next morning we load into a giant station wagon headed for the Tanzanian border along with some very large African people. The taxi driver and his buddy are laughing it up as we careen around a corner on the savanna where a tribesman is herding cows across the road. The driver touches the brakes, nothing happens, and so he swerves off the road to avoid the herd, clipping a cow along the way.
Once we get past the cows, the driver gives a big whoop and immediately swerves back onto the highway. As his wheels grip pavement, he loses control of the car and it rolls over and over. I have an out of body experience and watch the car roll, knowing I am in it, but strangely not afraid. The car lands on its wheels and we think it’s going to explode so we start to run. Something is wrong, I look down and see my foot dangling. I collapse in the dry grass and I can’t get my breath. My husband runs over to me and asks what hurts. My back, I say. Lucky for me, his lifeguard training kicks in at once.
One white jeep after another cruises by, white tourists peering out at us. No one stops. Eventually a guy pulls up in a big jeep- a local guy who is studying microbiology at UBC, working for the summer at a vet clinic. He rounds up a few others and they lift me oh so gently into the back of the vehicle and drive me to an outpost hospital in Kajiado where the doctor sets my foot with the help of a shot of morphine. I see nothing but my husband tells me later the clinic is full of Maasai people. My blood pressure is dropping. They call the Flying Doctors who send a land ambulance, the engine floods and it won’t start so they send a plane. My husband says the runway was surrounded by giraffes.
They are waiting for me at Nairobi General and the orthopedic surgeon does his best to set my foot. “Your wife’s not a gym teacher, is she?” he asks my husband.
I wake up the next morning with one overwhelming thought: What if I had died before having children? That thought haunts me for the next year.
I spent ten days in that hospital. All around me were other foreigners, some who had been thrown from vehicles and sustained head injuries, other who had been trampled by hippos and injured in various ways. I discovered I had a punctured lung, four broken ribs, and a cracked knee cap. An infection had set in at the site of the compound fracture. Four transverse processes on my vertebrae were fractured and so was the L-7 vertebra which miraculously broke right in half. The doctor told my husband that if the vertebra had only partially broken, the spinal cord would have been compressed, leading to paralysis. The doctor wanted to operate and be paid in cash. The High Commissioner recommended we go home.
Mutual of Omaha, our insurance company, sent a doctor and a nurse from Washington to help us get out of Africa. At the airport my gurney was lifted onto the Air France plane via the food elevator. 18 seats were removed from the plane to accommodate me. Along with my little entourage, we flew to Paris and London and finally Canada.
I spent six weeks in the Glenrose Hospital. My excellent orthopedic surgeon Don Coulter decided against surgery and I was outfitted with a back-brace which I wore for the next year. I've never had one bit of trouble from my broken back.
Nine months after the back brace came off, I gave birth to the first of my amazing three children.