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By MARSHA MERCER
Inspired by a Facebook friend, on New Year’s Day I started walking every
day.
On my 295th consecutive day, Oct. 23, I left my house about
8 a.m., planning to be back in about 75 minutes to get to work. I didn’t get home
until Nov. 2.
An hour and nearly 4 miles in, I was in the home stretch when my
reportorial instincts kicked in. Distracted only for an instant by a police car
across the street, I slipped on one of Old Town Alexandria’s charming, but
treacherous, brick sidewalks.
I grasped at the tall brick wall on my left but couldn’t catch hold,
nor could I regain my balance or stop. I tumbled down hard and couldn’t move. I
hurt.
“Are you all right?” asked a passerby on his way to work, which
struck me, even then, as an odd question. But his eyes were sympathetic as he helped
me up and held my hands.
“Can you stand?” I didn’t know. He let go, and I crumpled to the
ground again. More pain.
And that’s how a freak accident landed me in a crash course on American
health care.
I’ve reported for decades on health care policy and the politics of
health care, but it’s entirely different to see the medical system through a
patient’s eyes. When you, or someone you love, is a patient, all you care about
is getting well.
My ordeal could have been far worse. I’m active, have good insurance,
and kindness and compassion were manifold from the start.
The policewoman from the cruiser across the street and her
ride-along medic assessed the situation and called an ambulance. The driver told
me he’d take a longer way to the Inova Alexandria Hospital ER to avoid the
city’s potholes and work zones.
In the X-ray department, the technicians who had to lift me by
sheet onto the X-ray table were gentle and apologetic for adding to my discomfort.
The x-ray showed I’d fractured my right femur or thigh bone in
three places. I’d joined the broken hip club. I was immobilized until surgery the
following evening to pin it back together.
A couple of days later, I was moved to Inova Rehabilitation Center
at Mount Vernon Hospital, where I spent a week in intensive physical and
occupational therapy, learning to coax my right leg to move.
I’m home, beginning an in-home regimen of physical therapy to be followed
by a long stint of out-patient physical therapy. I hope for a full recovery.
In the hospital, I kept an eye on impeachment proceedings,
President Donald Trump’s twitter attacks and other news of the day, but the
contrast between the bitter divisiveness in the nation’s capital and the shared
purpose at the hospital across the river was striking.
With all the shouting in today’s meanspirited politics, I’d nearly
lost hope decency and moral grounding could prevail in our country, but I was
wrong. My accident renewed my confidence in America.
I am in awe of the cheerful nurses and aides who carry the brunt of
medical care on 12-hour shifts. Those long days and overnights are tough duty.
The doctors, PTs, OTs and other staffers I met were also unfailingly thoughtful,
polite and kind.
The medical team was diverse, with many members born outside
America but sharing enduring American values.
We are lucky to have immigrants like Hiwot, a tech who came here from
Ethiopia 14 years ago. The single mother of two girls, she works three 12-hour
days a week, and, because she has dreams, takes classes and studies the remaining
days to become a registered nurse.
“I want my daughters to be proud of me,” she said, quickly adding,
“They would be anyway.” But with an education, she said, she’ll be able to help
them more later.
When I told Dr. Galina Kolycheva, my rehab physician, I was
impressed with the dedication of the staff, she said simply, “They want to
help.”
Hiwot rolled me out in a wheelchair for my departure, wished me
luck and asked: “Can I give you a hug?”
Absolutely. I wanted to give them all hugs.
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