I was doing some hiking in San Francisquito Canyon, exploring an area of local historical significance as it is the site of a 1928 dam collapse. After exploring the ruins in the canyon and getting back to my truck, I noticed a path leading up to what was referred to as a “wing wall” which would have been at the top level of the where the dam used to be. I began hiking up the path, which was very steep. I could already hear The Admiral in my head, telling me I shouldn’t be doing this. She was back home at the time, probably doing something more sensible. It was very difficult keeping my footing in the loose dirt on such a steep incline. I found myself stepping off the trail occasionally, walking in the brush for better footing. The view at the top was spectacular, and the ruins of the wing wall that had been previously detonated were interesting. I took some photos and started on my way down.
On steep paths, it always seems easier to keep footing on the way up compared to on the way down. My own impression is that on your way up, you have a better feel for the traction on your leading foot before you commit to it. On the way down, you are more committed to the step before really knowing whether it will be stable. As I neared the bottom, I came to the steepest part. About 20 feet or so from the end, I took a step and my foot quickly slide forward. Both feet went out from under me, I went down on my back, and then slid about 10 feet into some brush. I did one of those quick assessments one does after a fall. Am I okay? Or did I break something important, leaving me unable to move and stranded here alone for weeks, living off of the little water I had with me and any grubs or berries within my reach?
It appeared that I was okay. I stood up, dusted myself off, and continued along the remaining short distance to my truck. After getting settled in the truck, I noticed something on the inside of my forearm. It was a narrow bulge, about an inch long, with a small puncture wound at one end. This isn’t good, I thought. There was nothing sticking of the wound, so I was not sure if something was in my arm, or if something that entered and exiting just leaving some swelling.
I contemplated whether to see a doctor, take a look at it closer myself when I got home, or just do some self-surgery right then and there with the only sharp object on hand in the truck: A box cutter. Discarding that last idea, I started my drive home, figuring that I would make a decision along the way. One big concern was that, whatever the outcome, I was sure to deservedly suffer the wrath of The Admiral when I arrived at home.
After driving a short distance, I passed by the San Francisquito Fire Station on my left. I started thinking that maybe they could help me out. I could just get a guy with a pair of tweezers, or in this case a small pair of pliers, to yank out whatever was in my arm. Thinking this would be my quickest and cheapest option, I turned around.
Upon entering the parking area of the small facility, a man exited the building and approached. After exchanging greetings, I told him what had happened showing him the bulge on my arm.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
After a couple of minutes, he was back with three other men carrying some gear.
I started explaining that I had a sliver in my arm and asking if they could pull it out. Politely ignoring my request, the guy with a clipboard asked for my name, birth date, and address. Then he started asking me some simple questions.
“What year is it?”
“Who is the President?”
“Do you know where you are?”
The last one was not really fair. Try getting “San Francisquito” right on the first try.
Anyway. . . While he was asking me the questions, another guy had a stethoscope to my neck and another guy was putting a blood pressure cuff on my arm.
“Guys. . . I just have a sliver in my arm. I was hoping you could just pull it out.”
“Did you hit your head when you fell?”, the guy with the clipboard asked.
I momentarily wondered if this was a rhetorical question to illustrate the ridiculousness of my request, or if I had got one of my previous answers wrong.
San Francisquito. I would think most people would work in a pronunciation of San Francisco in there and screw it up. These guys either need to change their line of questioning in these cases, or move the fire station.
The medical response was not at all what I was expecting. I started wondering whether I would be taken into the building to get an MRI.
“Can’t you just pull this thing out?” I asked.
“No. We can’t really do that,” Clipboard Guy replied. “But there is a County Fire Department just down the road and they might be able to deal with it.”
“Well, then maybe I should go down there.”
Clipboard guy then told me that they could have them come over and look at my arm and that they could be there pretty quickly.
“Okay. If it won’t take too long,” I replied.
Then the crew started with the blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, and questions again.
“Didn’t we just go through this?” I asked.
“We have to take your vital signs every fifteen minutes,” Clipboard Guy replied. “It’s procedure.”
I was trying very hard not to lose my patience. My original plan would have had me on my way home by now, sans sliver, with a bandage on my arm and a plan to return to the fire station later with a bottle of scotch.
We waited.
“We
Will they be here soon?” I asked.
“Any minute now,” answered Clipboard Guy.
Then they arrived. I was expecting a couple of guys in a pickup truck. But it was a fire truck. A large fire truck with an entire crew. Followed by an ambulance. I now had at least fifteen or so people around me.
Clipboard Guy was explaining the issue to one of those who had arrived. I strained to hear whether he would bring up my stammering when I tried to pronounce “San Francisquito” along with my reluctance to recall who was President.
“Can you guys pull this thing out?” I asked the guy that Clipboard Guy was talking to.
“We can’t do that. But we can transport you to a hospital,” he said.
I needed to leave. I put it as diplomatically as I could.
“Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate everything you guys do. I really do. But I need to leave. I need to get out of here right now.”
“You really should see a doctor. Are you okay to drive?” he asked.
“It’s a sliver in my arm. Am I free to leave?”, I asked
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then I’m leaving. Again, thank you for everything you guys do. I really appreciate it.”
I then got into my truck, and maneuvered my way around the myriad of people, equipment, and vehicles that clogged the parking lot on my behalf.
Getting back down the road into the Santa Clarita area, I drove to a clinic that I had found on Google Maps. The waiting room was empty so they were able to handle me quickly. The doctor sent me into a room to have x-rays taken. While I thought this was a little more than what was needed, I still wished they would have done the questions bit, as I think I would have confidently nailed “Santa Clarita” with relative ease.
Back in the examination room, the doctor entered to tell me that the x-rays indicated nothing in my arm. By now the bulge had become just an area of swelling with no defined shape like before.
“Can you take a closer look at it?” I asked. “I really think there is something in my arm.”
She got out some tweezers and examined it more closely.
“This is interesting”, she said. “It looks like there is something in your arm. I wonder why it did show up on the x-ray.”
She poked around some more. “I’m going to have to numb your arm,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine”, I said.
“You won’t be fine with what I am about to do.”
She exited the room, then reentered with a hypodermic needle. After giving the injection and waiting a couple minutes for it to take effect, she went to work on my arm.
After working on it for a minute or so, I felt her pull something out.
“Wow!”, she exclaimed.
There is something uniquely upsetting about having a doctor say “Wow” while working on you.
She triumphantly held up the tweezers with the small stick she had pulled out of my arm, then went out to show the other employees in the reception area.
Once she returned, she recommended a tetanus shot as well as an antibiotic, both of which I agreed to receiving. She then gave me the stick in a small container as a souvenir.
Yet another lesson to others at my expense: If you are having a having a heart attack, stroke, or are bleeding to death, feel free to stop at a nearby fire station. If it is something simple, like a sliver, don’t even think about it. At the very least, if you consider it, do so in an area that is easy to pronounce.