Why I am blogging about shoulder rehab

>Planning our recent trip to New Orleans, my husband and I thought we were being terribly magnanimous. He offers training seminars for users of his software a few times each year. We chose New Orleans so his clients would join us in spending money there—our little contribution to rebuilding the hurricane-ravaged region. Or so we thought.

As it happened, I fell off a Segway at the end of an otherwise delightful 2 ½ hour tour of the French Quarter and ended up placing a burden on the local emergency medical services system

First I needed an ambulance, complete with two friendly, competent and extremely patient emergency medical technicians. They took me to Tulane University Hospital Emergency Department where I occupied a bed in for several hours. The nurse who coordinated my care at Tulane apologized at one point for taking so long to check on me. He was simultaneously responsible for two other patients experiencing cardiac arrest. By then I was hooked up to a bag of Demerol so I didn’t really care.

Meanwhile, outside my room, I could overhear two patients who were in pretty bad shape; a very drunk woman who said she’d been beaten up by her boy friend, and a man who had overdosed on heroin. The woman was loud and mostly incoherent; the man pulled out his IV and trailed blood all over the floor before he was restrained.

When my husband arrived at the emergency room, he called our California HMO to request authorization for my care. The representative listened as my husband explained where we were and what had happened. He then asked what state New Orleans is in. Upon being informed that New Orleans is in the state of Louisiana he asked, “Is that anywhere near Virginia?”

When the x-ray revealed a broken shoulder, we learned Tulane would not schedule the needed surgery for at least four days. Even then, a patient with a life-threatening injury might bump me from the operating room. The medical resident appeared uncomfortable while explaining the surgery situation to us. While he didn’t come right out and say it, he intimated Tulane had experienced difficulty collecting from our HMO for such “out of plan” treatment. I couldn’t help thinking I might have been able to see a surgeon sooner if I was able to pay cash. But looking around an emergency department crowded with uninsured people, I had to appreciate the realities.

The doctors at Tulane deemed my injury stable enough to delay treatment four days, so Kaiser said I’d have to come home for the surgery. All the bottom line people at both institutions were happy and I just had to get home to Oakland with a broken humerus that was 100% displaced. Tulane wrapped my arm in a sling and swathe to immobilize it, gave me a prescription for 60 percoset, and sent me on my way.

Before leaving the ER, we thanked all the doctors and nurses who had cared for me. I especially wanted to know the names of the ambulance EMTs who had transported me as gently as possible through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. The young woman who administered the shot of morphine that helped me endure that painful trip looked down at me as she stood next to my gurney. “It’s Katrina,” she said, responding to my question. And we both just smiled.