A Day Interrupted

                      A Day Interrupted

         The day started out innocently enough. It was late November in Florida. We were headed to the CME-LPGA golf tournament at the Tiburon Golf Course complex in Naples, Florida. Milwaukee friends, Mike and Roxie Gengler, had provided us with two one-day passes. We were much looking forward to watching these world class athletes perform. The elegant, seemingly effortless rhythm of their golf swing is something of beauty to behold.

         Most of these mini-titans were small in stature and couldn’t weigh more than one hundred and five pounds soaking wet. Yet, the finely tuned coordination of their swing propelled the surlyn covered missile some 250 yards down the fairway, defying all of the laws of physics that I am familiar with.

We got an early, 7:30 am, start. The traffic was heavy as we drove down Three Oaks Parkway, to Orange Blossom Road, in Naples. The traffic was already backing up near the parking lots for spectators. Ten dollars got us into the lot. We boarded the tourney bus for the 15-minute ride to the lush Ritz Carlton complex that includes Tiburon Golf Course. We had done this for the last five years. The LPGA group has the whole system finely tuned. The bus let us off near the entrance to the tournament. We displayed our tickets, were wanded by security staff, and set off. At the practice putting green we watched several of the women players go through various putting drills. Their concentration was intense.

Next, we walked over to the practice driving range. A whole line of the contenders was launching surlyn-covered missiles down the practice range. The elegant balance, of the complicated array of physical motions of the golf swing , was similar to that of an array of ballet dancers performing a delicate movement. It is the pure poetry of motion that always fascinates us. The facial countenances of the players were anxious. These women were playing for big stakes. The winner would take home $1.5 million.

         After a time, we started walking towards the first tee. The activity and expectations all around us were both festive and frenzied. The grounds here are “Florida Beautiful” with palm trees, exotic grasses and beautiful bird life all around us. It was sunny and in the 70s. even at this early hour. We crossed a small bridge to Hole #9. We were headed to the par 3, Hole #8. Here we planted our chairs. It is a great visage to watch nearly the whole field of contestants launch their balls and land on a small oval of velvet green. 

         When the players approached the green, to line up their putts for birdies or pars, you get to observe great athletes in action. Each has an individual personality that manifests itself in different facial expressions, depending on how successfully they putt the ball. Some are stoic. Others are more emotive. But, watching them compete, up-close, humanizes them. You cheer them on with all that you have when they make a long and difficult putt.

         After planting our chairs greenside, we thought it best to use the nearby facilities. It was our walk back that was to change our day dramatically.

         As I was walking through the pine straw, on a small hill, I tripped and fell forward. I don’t really remember the elements of the fall. Like the action sequence, of a Billy Wilder film, the motion slows down markedly. Apparently, I pitched forward, landing with most of the weight on my left forearm. I continued forward, with my nose and forehead sliding across the concrete cart path. I don’t think I was knocked unconscious, but I don’t really remember the next sequence of events as described to me later by wife Mary.

         The facial abrasions had generated a significant amount of blood across my face. It looked far worse that it was. From a nearby stand, a volunteer had arrived and took charge. He summoned the area paramedics and proceeded to wash the blood from my face with a bottle of water. I don’t remember him much, but he was pleasant enough in his ministrations. He put a wedge under my head and talked to me to see if I was concussed. He also insisted that I be still, even though I wanted to get up. I told him that I had faced worse than this in a few bar fights. He said that he was a local hockey team coach and could use me in a rink side fight. Besides, I wanted to see the golfers in action. I wish now that I had gotten the man’s name, to thank him for all that he did for me.

         The North Naples EMTs arrived and took charge. They wrapped my head in gauze to shut off the bleeding. I was feeling like an escapee from a MASH hospital unit. The EMTs were insistent on calling in an ambulance and transporting me to the hospital. “Screw that,” I thought. I wanted to watch the tournament. The clincher was the blood pressure cuff. It was showing my BP in the 195/73 territory. Even in my impaired fugue state, I realized that this is aneurism and stroke territory. I consented to the ambulance. It took the ambulance crew a while to find us out on the course. The volunteers were kind to the end. One considerate woman stood over me to block the sun with her body. Thank you, ma’am, wherever you are.

         Finally, the ambulance arrived. I thought Mary would ride along with me, but it was against insurance policy. I asked the volunteers if they would get her back to our car. Bless them, they did. Thanks again guys.

         The ride to Physicians’ Regional Hospital, on Pine Ridge Road, was uneventful. I sat strapped into a gurney and watched the scenery flow by. The EMT asked me a series of questions, to determine if I was concussed. I must have been sort of with it. He asked if I knew who our current president was. I answered, “unfortunately I do.” The blood pressure cuff was still registering 195/70 as we turned into the hospital emergency entrance.

         From there on, it was all admirable professionalism. Capable ER personnel bathed the facial abrasions, with saline solution, and settled me in. Rather quickly, a technician wheeled me into the X-Ray lab for pics of my left elbow. I had been telling the EMTs that the area of my left triceps was swollen and that I had no use of my left arm. Additionally, a CT scan of my head was taken to determine if the skull had been fractured. The BP cuff showed a gradual reduction of the blood pressure like air coming out of a tire. 185 over 70, then 175 over 70 and finally coming to rest at 160 over 60. It was kind of cool watching the digital display of the body calming down after a flight or fight incident.

         After a time, a Physician’s Assistant came by. He advised that, even though I looked a bit on the scary side, I had no fractured skull. The hard heads of the Irish had saved me. My facial abrasions would clear up in a few weeks. However, the left elbow was broken and the arm was fractured. The RNs fixed me up with a soft cast, wrapped in bandages, and set me free. The whole process took a little under two hours. Of course, in the “Billy Wilder” time of the injured, it seemed a lot longer.

         Subsequent visits, to a talented orthopedist, confirmed that the knobby portion of the elbow had broken off. I would however be able to lose the cast, but had to keep the arm slinged, until an MRI determined if any bone chips had sliced through tendons, sinews or muscles. We had the MRI taken a week later and now await another visit to the specialist to see what was what. You get philosophical in adversity as you get older. I remember when younger brother Jack had been lost in a bad traffic accident. His wife’s father, an old and street wise Irish Cop, had said in trying to comfort his daughter, “Sometimes, you don’t get a vote on these situations, they just happen.” 

 I hadn’t thought to set any of this down until later, when my arm had healed and I could once again wield the keyboard. But, later that week, we had dinner with old college friends, Rick and Renee O’Rourke. Rick advised me that James Patterson wrote all of his novels in longhand. I figured “What the Heck?” I can do that too. Everything in life is a story. This is just one of my latest installments, typed by my faithful wife and editor Mary.

         My thanks to everyone who helped me. God bless them every one. 

                                             -30-

                                         (1,484 words)

                                 Joseph Xavier Martin (with Help)