An ordinary life in an extra-ordinary place
Archive for November, 2008
Although the monsoon winds are on their way, they are not quite here yet; so what were a bunch of frustrated windsurfers to do on an almost windless Sunday afternoon? Get out the bungee of course!
Regular readers (both of them) will remember the lunatic bungee session a few weeks ago.
Well, the bungee was out again today, and people were flying along on a flat sea.
Actually, the video above does not fly when I preview it; but trust me, it’s fast.
As well as launching the bungee board:
The bungee can also launch windsurfing and SUP boards:
Light ladies travelled noticeably faster than large gentlemen….
Well, that was a fun couple of weeks. Back from hospital and into a daily routine that reflected an existence rather than a life.
A morning shower with she who must be obeyed, with me in charge of the top half, and her covering the lower regions. Not as much fun as it sounds because the restraining frame I have to wear is obviously removed for showering purposes, and we both spend the time in the shower booth fretting as to whether I will slip and permanently screw my back.
Breakfast and then a morning spent reclined in a chair or lying on the bed, watching crap cable TV or hopefully something I have downloaded. As a special treat, Antony has lent me the complete seven series of The West Wing. Sharp, intelligent writing and fine acting; who would have thought that the workings of a government office could be so entertaining?
Lunch is delivered by a local restaurant and then it is more lazing and snoozing until she who must be obeyed returns home and organises dinner. Then back to the comfy chair to pass the evening before another shower and into bed with my bloody back strap working overtime to ensure there is no comfortable sleeping position available. A disturbed night before waking to the scary shower session. What an existence.
As you may gather, I am not a good patient. While grateful to be alive and to still have all my faculties (apart from patience), the prospect of 2-3 restrained months does not appeal, and the days pass exceedingly slowly. I want to go out, I want to drive (even though I no longer have a car), I want to windsurf. Most of all I want to feel that I have enough energy to do all these things. But I don’t, I feel like crap and all I really want to do is sleep. So I do.
But today my dear wife dragged my sorry ass down to the windsurfing club. It was great to see the gang again, and there was some expectation in the air because the winds that accompany the north east monsoon seem to be on their way (along with cooler days and no rain for a few months, lovely). Just being back on the beach seemed to wake me up a bit and I now feel that maybe I can start to live again.
And resume writing. Sorry for the interruption.
When misfortune strikes, good things can happen too. I have experienced much kindness over the past couple of weeks, and thanks are in order.
To whoever dragged me out of my car.
To the police who attended the scene, took my wallet and phone from my pocket, and then kept them safe to give to my wife later. They keep ringing up reminding me that I have to pay a 400 baht fine for having a crash (this is a standard fine apparently!). I look forward to thanking them in person.
To the taxi driver who stopped at the scene and volunteered to take me into hospital. Sorry for the blood on the upholstery, I plan to meet up with you when I am a little better and press some cash into your palm.
To everyone at Bangkok Pattaya who looked after me with a smile. Your hot compresses are the best!
To everyone who visited, called, e-mailed or left comments on this site. Special mention has to go my friend Tic and his girlfriend who drove all the way from Bangkok to wish me well.
Last, to she who must be obeyed. On the night of the accident she sent me a message saying “I love you. We will get through this together.” And we have. My role in getting through this together has been to lie down and be looked after. Her role has been to wash me, dress me, feed me, organise everything that needs to be organised in respect of hospitals, insurance companies etc., while still finding time to do her job. Throughout she has been her usual cheerful, cheeky self. I could not wish for a better companion in life.
Two to three months of recuperation lie ahead before I can return to my previous carefree existence of taking photos and windsurfing. Given the apparent size of the accident, I also have to be thankful that a normal life is something I can look forward to.
I’m a lucky man, in so many ways.
If you have a car in Thailand, it has to have a minimum of third party insurance, via an insurance scheme which is, I believe, run by the government. This will cost you around 800 baht and provides a degree of cover should you ever injure other people. It will also, provide a contribution of 15,000 baht to your medical costs, a fact I was unaware of because I never planned on being injured…..
I also had fully comprehensive insurance, a fact that did not relieve me from the obligation to purchase the government third party offering. This insurance, as well as hopefully reimbursing me for my destroyed car at some point, once they have removed their fingers from their bums, also contributed 100,000 baht to my hospital bill.
These two contribution left only a balance of around 30,000 baht to be picked up by my medical insurance, and nothing to be paid by me (apart from suffering for a while).
Of course, these insurance companies don’t just hand out the money, they need evidence that you have been injured and are not just lying in the hospital for the fun of it. My car insurance company had a representative on the scene from the beginning and he must have got some great photos of my scalp being sewn back on to help justify my hospital stay. But the government scheme did not send their man round until the third day, by which time it was more difficult to see what was wrong with me.
He came into my room, camera ready, and tried to find something to photograph. My shattered vertebrae was well hidden, my bashed up ribs were unseen below a T-shirt, and even my sewn up scalp was looking like nothing more than a rather badly combed hairstyle. But I had one leg sticking out of the blankets and there was a healing scar on an ankle, so he photographed that. It was a scar from a recent windsurfing mishap.
Then he gave me a form to complete describing he accident. This was somewhat of a challenge given that I have no recollection of the event. Nothing daunted, I launched into a colourful narrative which had a central theme involving a rampant giraffe in the outside lane and a distracting bevy of bar girls in a passing bus. In a homage to Blackadder, I included the Balinese Goddess of Plenty as a member of the attending police force and signed off the fabrication with a flourish. This seemed to satisfy the government agent, and my slightly injured ankle and rampaging giraffe ensured that funds were forthcoming the following day.
Following years of careful research, Bangkok Pattaya hospital has developed a scientific approach to pain level evaluation. Patients are shown a white card with eight cartoon faces drawn upon it. The first face is a smiley, happy offering with clearly not a care in the world. Face number eight is a weeping, pain-wracked wreck, representing someone who appears to have just lost a limb without the benefit of anesthetic. In between are six faces showing varying levels of pain. Patients are shown the card and asked to choose which face represents their level of pain. Appropriate painkillers are then administered.
As my body felt like it it had been vigorously shaken inside a large tin can (which, in essence, it had) I decided I was unhappy face number six. The nurse selected the appropriate drug for unhappy face number six and it was added to the stream of fluids being fed into my hand.
First sign was a flood of warmth heading up my arm. This warm cloud of comfort then extended across my whole body, lifting me high above the pain into a fuzzy world of floating bliss where I remained for an hour or so. This was my first experience of morphine, and I liked it.
Over the next couple of days the pain subsided, but when the chart was brandished in front of me, I adopted a pained expression and whispered “number six please”. Eventually they decided that I was getting more morphine than was good for me and I was forced to downgrade to slightly upset number three, which was rewarded with a pill of no obvious benefit. My morphine druggy days were over.
But if you ever find yourself in Bangkok Pattaya hospital with a sore throat or a bit of cramp, ask for the chart and point to number six. It’s good shit, man.
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