Dislocations, Men and Medicine

So I am visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Boston. I arrive after a long flight, during which I am slightly more nervous than usual, due to wondering if there are still any functioning air traffic controllers working or whether I've taken my life in my hands to dare to fly in Trump's America. The flight is uneventful, starts on time, ends on time, my bag arrives. My brother and sister-in-law pick me up. I walk with some difficulty up the 28 steps to his front door and enter his lovely Craftsman style house on the outskirts of Boston, take off my coat and hat, drop my bags, and notice a conga drum in the corner of his living room. I’m a drummer: it draws me. I have an urge to pound out a celebratory rhythm. I make a bee line to it, forgetting that that end of his living room is up on a slight dais. I trip and fall, hard.

I feel my head connect with the edge of the drum--not the recommended way to play it! My brow ridge does its job, protecting my eye—a good thing as I’ve recently had cataract surgery and that’s the eye with the expensive, progressive lens! But somehow on the way down I hit something that leaves my left shoulder in absolute agony. I can't move without extreme pain. I can't sit up. We quickly determine that my brother and sister-in-law between the two of them aren't going to be able to get me up and back down the 28 steps to the car.

This isn't the way I’d planned to start my visit. And it sends me musing about a number of things:

Men:

We call 911 and the fire department arrives within minutes. Suddenly the room is filled with men, and never have I felt so grateful to be surrounded by what seems to be hordes of them. It must have been a quiet night in Watertown, as I think half the fire department is there. I can’t say exactly as I am in too much pain to lift my head off the floor, so my view is of looming pairs of trousers. Say what you will about men, and I’ve said a lot in my time, there are moments when a big crowd of burly men is just what you need, although I’m sure there are burly women who could also have served. I am not a lightweight person. It takes a crowd to get me up off the floor and into a carrying chair. And then there are the 28 steps from my brother’s front door down to the street.

These particular men, as strong and manly a bunch as you could ever hope to find, are also extremely gentle and kind. They take great care to cause me the least amount of pain possible. They are, in fact, just what you'd want men to be.

If there is such a thing as true masculinity, it would be this: putting your strength to the service of helping and healing others with consideration and kindness. In spite of all the manosphere propaganda bullshit spewed by characters who think that cosplaying a bully demonstrates manliness, the world is still full of strong, kind and gentle men. Where I live, out in the country, they staff the volunteer fire department, as do some women, devoting hundreds of hours each year to trainings, meetings, and responding to fires, emergencies and medical needs. They staff clinics and hospitals, schools and daycare centers, and a thousand other places where strength and compassion in concert are needed. Kindness and caring are not traits distributed strictly by gender. They can be as much a part of what makes a man manly as upper-body strength and testosterone.

So, if you are raising boys and looking for role models, walk them down to the local fire station, or introduce them to some paramedics, or look for others who care for people. Turn off the bullies and listen, instead, to the many voices who understand that empathy is a form of intelligence, not a weakness, and kindness is a sign of true strength.

Medical care:

Once I reach the ER, the doctor orders a CAT scan to make sure I’m not bleeding into my brain after my unorthodox drum solo. They take X-rays of my shoulder to determine just what I’ve done to it. The chief doctor and the physician’s assistant are also strong, knowledgeable, professional and kind men, as the radiology techs are strong, considerate and empathetic women. They explain to me what is going on and take care to hurt me as little as possible.

Once the X-rays show that my shoulder is not in its designated socket, they are able to put it back surprisingly quickly with some gentle massage and careful manipulation. It’s actually the physician’s assistant who places my arm against my side and gently moves it outward. Suddenly, I feel the shoulder slide back into place. I am half-expecting a moment of extreme pain, possibly based on something I’ve seen Callie do on Grey’s Anatomy, but it doesn’t actually hurt. The sense of relief is like nothing I've ever experienced before. In one instant, I go from being in extreme pain to feeling pretty much all right. Sore, but I can move my arm again, shrug my shoulders and look forward to doing all the things I have planned for the next few days. It’s almost worth all the pain that’s gone before to feel that sense of instant relief.

With all the stress of the night, the pain, the fear, and the uncertainty, there is one thing I’m not worrying about: how I am going to pay for this all? If the doctor says I need a CAT scan, I can have a CAT scan. I don't have to consider whether I'll have to pay several thousand dollars of deductibles before insurance kicks in or end up bankrupt if I have to pay for it all. I'm old. I'm on Medicare, our closest thing to socialized medicine here in the land of the free. And they haven't cut it yet. Whether that will continue to be true, we don't know. But I do know this: no one who is in pain, no one who is injured, no one who is hurting like I’m hurting, or worse, should ever have to worry about how the hell they're going to pay for the care they need!

When we say medical care is a human right, it's not just a slogan. It's what you want to know when you're lying on the ground writhing in agony and unable to get up. No one should ever have to cut a test or curtail needed care out of fear. Life hands us enough suffering without mining it for profit.

We finally make it home about two o’clock in the morning. With my brother's help, I am able to walk back up the 28 steps and go to bed. We are all pretty tired the next day, and the weather is cold and dreary, so we don’t go out. My brother is a songwriting professor at Berkelee College of Music, where he yearly organizes a Songs for Social Change Contest. We spend much of the day creating some new political chants. After all, we’ve been chanting, “Hey hey, ho ho, the next bad thing has got to go!” probably since the days when it was King George the Third has got to go, if not before. And then, of course, there's the ever popular Three Word Chant! Three Word Chant! But there’s a lot of protests going on, and we don’t want to get bored. So here’s a new one for your protesting pleasure:

Tremble tyranny!

Hear our call!

Justice, liberty,

Rise for all!

Now, days later, my arm is healing up nicely, as is the rather spectacular black eye I developed. Mostly, I consider myself to be very lucky, because it could have been so much worse.

If there's a lesson in all this, it's this: Watch your step! Play the conga with your hands, not your head. If you’re looking for heroes and positive images for young men, the world abounds with them. And defend everyone's right to receive the care they need, because next time it might be you writhing on the ground.

A big thank you to all the firefighters, first responders, medical personnel and caregivers out there!

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