Misplaced attention. It gets me every time, but in a race its effects can be, well, dramatic.
My son Jake and I put our running shoes on one morning and headed out to run up North Cheyenne Canyon. It was a fundraiser, and a combination running race and family hike. We planned to run a little, walk a little, and end up between the runners and the hikers.
The horn signaled the start, and the runners surged forward, Jake among them. “Wait,” I yelled, “Jake, hold on,” acutely aware that 4 miles of uphill lay ahead, and we needed to pace ourselves.
In that moment I felt my feet tangle, maybe against each other, and my trajectory change from forward to, inexorably, down.
After my knees hit, and a moment of intense regret, my nose and forehead scraped along the pavement. And then I lay on the ground, trying mightily to get up and out of the way of the other runners, Jake crying, “Mom, are you OK, are you OK Mom? Mom!”
The volunteers grabbed me then and led me to the side, head spinning and nausea rising. They helped me sit, and then I was in a dream, sunlight and flowers all adrift. I woke to their anxious faces, Jake off to the side and the ambulance coming.
The bald EMT who questioned me had a big job: Could they let me decide, for myself, whether I should take their offer of a ride to the hospital?
He made my eyes follow his finger, asked me all the orienting questions. I answered correctly in my exact, writerly vocabulary, so he advised me to get checked out, but thought I’d probably be OK.
Except when I stood up, my head spun again, almost immediately, and waves of nausea rose. I took the ride after all, and instead of rushing up Colorado Springs’ vertical wilderness, I lay on the cot in the emergency room and watched the New York City marathon on TV.
When the doctor showed up an hour or so later, she advised a CT scan — and I refused it. The dizziness and nausea had gone away; I thought a cup of coffee and some lunch would probably cure whatever ailed me.
What I mostly wanted to know, laying there in the ER, was the size of the bill. Whatever was offered — a cleaning up of my wounds, a CT scan, an IV — I didn’t want any of it if it would cost anything.
Last year, after crashing a bike, I took a similar trip. I have insurance, but the bill was still over $1,300. It’s good insurance; the original cost was over $13,000 just for the emergency room visit. I’d been hurt worse and was less conscious both of my status and of my right to refuse treatment; this time, I’d make sure to do things on the cheap.
So the ER dismissed me with a strong admonition not to be alone for 24 hours, and follow the “one-puke” rule: If I threw up more than once, I was to return.
So I’m now left with embarrassment, wounded vanity, and a question: Are potential costs the best rationale on which to make choices about one’s health care?
When I go to Wal-Mart in my economically diverse part of town, I often see people who seem permanently disabled by injuries.
They use scooters instead of walking; they are missing teeth; they have clearly visible cysts and tumors. Many seem morbidly obese, some have lost limbs and don’t appear to possess or use adequate prostheses.
As I spoke to the parents of the kids I taught who lived in my neighborhood, I realized it came down to cost: If you can’t afford to see a doctor about something minor, more often than not it becomes major, and you lose a tooth, a foot, your hair, your vision, your fitness.
And suddenly, today, I found myself in their place, coldly weighing the economic impact of my choices.
The doctor had told me the symptoms I’d experienced after falling may have been simply the result of the shock of the fall. I chose to believe her, and make the short-term economic choice of walking out without availing myself of the resources offered.
Was it the right choice?
I hope so.
Eva Syrovy (evasyrov@msn.com) of Colorado Springs is a special education teacher at the middle school level. She blogs at .
