Sometimes you get hit by a 2×4 and robbed 22.08.2009
There’s this scene in season one of The Wire where Bubbles goes to see Johnny Weeks in hospice after he’s been brutally beaten by the low rise hoppers and Bubs looks at Johnny and says “Beat down, bagged up, still ready to rip and run.”
This scene, to say the least, has a totally new resonance for me now.
On the morning of August 19th, at around 2am, I was coming home after meeting some friends at the Goldstar. I decided to take California Ave past Humboldt park, something I would never have done a couple years ago at that time at night, but still a route that I’ve taken home more times than I can count. I was coming up on the Lemoyne intersection when I was struck in the back, hard, by something on my left side (we think it was either a 2×4 or a baseball bat). I stayed on my bike for a moment before careening across the street and crashing into a curb and hitting the ground. Before I could even try and get up two or three people we on top of me, punching me in the face, pulling my messenger bag off me, screaming “don’t look at me don’t fucking look at me” and “where is it where is it”. They got my bag and my wallet and ran back across the street, disappearing between two houses across from the park.
I got jacked between LeMoyne and Hirsch on California
I got up, shaken, and started trying to find my glasses, which had fallen off at some point in the attack. It was dark, I was shaking and in pain, and couldn’t see well, so I couldn’t find them. I got on my bike and started to ride away, but then circled back to look again. I saw my baseball cap in the middle of the street, so I grabbed that. Couldn’t see my u-lock anywhere, or my glasses, so I rode away, making sure to take note of what cross street I was by. I stopped up at North Ave to see if I could find a cop. My phone had been in the radio holster on my bag, so it was gone. I asked someone walking down the street if there was a payphone around, but they didn’t really seem to want to talk to me. Frustrated and hurting I rode back to Alexis’s house, where I’ve been living until I can find an apartment for Sept 1st.
I woke Alexis up and told her what had happened. She started calling some folks to track down my younger brother’s number (he lives in Chicago) while I used her laptop to cancel my bank card and credit card, which had been in my wallet. We talked for a while and, naturally me being me, I felt fine, just banged up and didn’t want to go to the ER or call the cops. I just wanted to go to bed and deal with everything the next morning.
After sleeping for a couple hours I woke up around 6am in horrible pain and knew something was really wrong. I was lightheaded and in pain and felt like I was blacking out. I crawled back to my bedroom and shouted for Alexis, telling her I needed to go to the hospital right now. Then I blacked out for a few seconds. She found me sitting on my bed, trying to pull a tshirt on, pouring sweat and glassy eyed.
Breathing Toy to keep my lungs from collapsing. I got to keep it. It’s fun.
I grabbed my old phone, which I had charged the night before, and my passport and we drove down to Northwestern Medical on Chicago Ave. It’s not the closest hospital, but it’s the best one in the city for trauma. I stayed conscious the whole way there, and walked myself into the ER. It was pretty obvious to the admission and triage nurses that I was in bad shape, despite being able to give them all my information and generally be lucid and coherent. They took my blood pressure, which was 44/67, at which point there was a lot of activity and next thing I knew I was in a bed, IV’s in both arms, and a lot of trauma doctors surrounding me, doing ultrasounds and injecting me with stuff and generally behaving in that way that I quickly clocked as “oh man, I am really really hurt, aren’t I”.
It took them a bit to get my blood pressure up in the 60’s, which along with the ultrasound, pointed to internal bleeding. They got me into the CAT Scan machine (which is kind of cool and still looks like it’s from the future) and determined that in fact I had a Spleen Lac (essentially an abraded spleen) which was bleeding, creating a hematoma in my abdomen. They ran some X-Rays and also determined that ribs 3 and 5-9 on my left side were fractured. My jaw, which had been punched a few times, was ok, and it had no head trauma.
My IV drop control, complete with alarm that went off everytime I moved my arm
The decision at this point was to either get me into surgery to remove my spleen, or wait a bit and see if the the bleeding would stop on it’s on and would stabilize. In most other hospitals I would already have been in surgery, but Northwestern is pretty progressive and try and avoid surgery and it’s risks whenever possible. I was still in the ER at this point, and, yes, I got to experience my first catheter (aka foley). That was rough, as it took two tries to get it in. I had declined pain killers, because I wanted to be clear headed to be able to make decisions and understand what was happening to me, so I didn’t really have anything to take the edge off. Alexis was still with me and I had her start to make calls to people like my brother. The hospital had free wi-fi, so I was able to use my old iPhone to start posting updates to Facebook (nerdy, I know, but I wanted to get information out to people about my status, and I didn’t have a working phone). At some point the police came to take a statement and make a report, most of which Alexis took care of, as I was still being stabilized at the time.
I spent a few hours in the ER before they moved me up to the Surgical ICU on the 8th floor. The staff up there were amazing, keeping me up to date on what they were thinking about my condition and the different ways it could go. While not entirely in the clear I was mostly out of danger (and at this point in better shape than anyone else on my ward).
Getting ready for the zombies + remote control to call nurses when zombies come
My dry erase board. Alyssa, my RN, pretty much ruled as did Dr. Crandall
Over that day a lot of people came in to see me. Kelly, who was in Iowa going to the state fair (two words: Butter Astronaut) drove back and came straight to the hospital. We really broke all the visitors rules, being loud, swearing, laughing and generally carrying on. The staff didn’t seem to mind though, and the front desk quickly just started sending anyone with a messenger bag or a lot of tattoos straight up to see me.
Rene visits and shows off the Soiled Linen
Andy and Lori and Andy’s bat wiffel ball bat, which he didn’t hit me with
I spent the night in ICU. The next day I had just as many visitors and my prognosis seemed good. My hemoglobin levels had stabilized, a sign that the bleeding had stopped (although it could start again, so they wanted to continue to keep me under observation) and there was talk about potentially moving me to a general floor later in the day. I still hadn’t had any food, since they didn’t know if they would need to get me into surgery quickly. Kelly hit Whole Foods and stocked up on pudding and snacks for me once they gave me the clear to eat. Eric from Upgrade brought me his spare glasses (his prescription is close to mine) so I could see and a stack of Japanese comics. Andy brought me a bunch of Zombie comics. My brother brought me my mail (I ignored all the bills). My blood work continued to come in well, and my blood pressure was stable and things continued to look good. That evening I was given the clear to move upstairs to a general ward, given the nod to eat food and they finally, at last, they removed my foley, which was horrible and wonderful and horrible.
My view out the window. You can’t see it, but further to the left is a rooftop pool where, I was told, there were sometimes parties with gogo dancers.
I spent the night in the general ward, able to read some and hooked up to far fewer machines. It’s kind of ironic that all Zombie comics and films seem to start off in hospitals, so I felt pretty prepared in case anything happened, and confident that, despite my injuries, I could fight my way out if I had to. That morning I met again with the trauma team and they had high hopes that, if my bloodwork continued to come back stable I could actually be discharged that day (Friday). Considering how hurt I was when I came in they were really pleased with how rapidly I was recovering, but were clear with me that my actual full recovery time, post hospital, would take a while.
The food tray, which taunted me until I was actually allowed to have food.
Around 10am they started working up my discharge papers and at noon they cut me loose. My parents had just made it into town, driving up from Bloomington, so they picked me up at the hospital and brought me back to Alexis’s.
I hurt. My ribs, naturally, are painful, and just the general trauma of being hit, crashing, and being beaten has left me with a lot of pulled muscles and bruises. I don’t know if I can actually feel my spleen, but if I can it hurts like a bitch. But I’m so happy to be out of the hospital, alive and on the mend that I don’t really care. I’m going to be off the bike for a bit, and I’m off racing or doing anything competitive for about six months (which kills it for me doing cyclocross this season, racing the Cuttin’ Crew Classic next weekend and racing the CMWC in Tokyo next month).
I’m still processing the actual assault. My focus really has been on recovery at this point, getting home and getting back to being able to do the things I could do before (and continue to have an awesome summer). But at some point I know I know I’m going to get angry. Almost getting killed for no good reason, with no provocation pisses me off. I get that it’s gang initiation season. And I get that, yes, you probably shouldn’t be rolling through Humboldt Park on your own in the middle of the night. But it’s cowardly to hit someone behind with a 2×4 and take their things. The value of what they took maybe totals a couple hundred dollars of shit that you can maybe sell for a fraction of that (and there was no cash in my wallet or bag). The cost of my hospital stay will be in the many thousands (I fortunately have health insurance, which I pay for myself being self-employed – otherwise I would be financially ruined at this point. Fuck you any and everyone against single payer socialized medicine). The worry and fear that was inflicted on people that know me and care for me is unforgivable. I know I live in a big city. I know that people get jacked. Shit happens. It’s not fair but that’s life.
But I’m not afraid. I’m not going to be afraid. I’ll be careful. I’ll make sure to roll out with people and not on my own so much. I’ll remember that just because a neighborhood is less violent and dangerous than it was doesn’t make it safe. I love this city and I love living here (I also love Baltimore, which on average you could say is more violence prone than Chicago).
So be careful people. It’s a rough summer out there. It’s a rough time we’re in. Be safe. Be smart. Protect your neck.
