39 and Bouncing

I saw a post that said, “The top reason old men end up getting injured is that they still think they’re young men.” If I had a nickel for every time I thought, “Yup, that’s my husband,” I’d probably have enough nickels to pay for his medical bills.

Every month, our friends in Panama go on an adventure. We call it “family adventure day”, because we are the creative types. This time, our plan involved a destination called “Los Cojones” – a beautiful spot for cliff-jumping into a river. Picture it: picnic baskets, coolers filled with beer and beverages, the kids, our dogs, sunscreen, and a day of relaxation. A budget-friendly local adventure. Perfect!

Well, as luck would have it, just as we were packing up for this outing, it starts to rain. Correction: it was a proper Central-American storm. It was pouring. We made a quick pivot in the plans, the dogs got left behind, and we switched gears and headed to a trampoline park that was a solid 45 minutes away.

Traffic was an absolute nightmare, and that 45-minute drive transformed into a whopping 75 minutes. By the time we reached the trampoline park, I was wishing we’d still brought the cooler. And the beer.

Our friend decided to kick off his trampolining (is that a word?) career with a twisted ankle. We initially thought he was just joking, because it was literally his first jump. Nope, he was serious. His wife came to the rescue with an ice pack, and we continued jumping because, well, that’s the kind of friends we are.

As our hour of bouncing was coming to an end, my dear husband Garrett, who’s edging closer to the big 4-0, thought it would be a great idea to squeeze in one last trick. Lo and behold, on his final jump, he managed to kick the wall with tremendous force and jam his toe. Fortunately, the hour was nearly up, and you know me, I like to get my money’s worth.

As we left the trampoline park, we looked like a parade of cautionary tales about why you don’t go to trampoline parks. One of us is scooting on his rear end down the stairs. Another one is using his wife and daughter as makeshift crutches. We are all much sweatier than we should be for the amount of effort we used. I’m sure to the amusement of the other trampoline park guests, living in Central America, we always stand out (mucho gringo) but today was another level. Que disastre!

Now, I’m fairly certain Garrett’s toe is just a sprain. After all, I once broke my toe and didn’t even realize it until I couldn’t bend it anymore. But hey, we all know men and women are wired differently, so I casually stopped for gas and a Taco Bell pitstop on our way home because we were all starving, and who doesn’t want Taco Bell after a sweaty workout… After our 45-minute drive back home, we made a quick detour to a medical clinic, just for good measure (and to get Garrett to stop his whinging).

At the clinic, they took Garrett for some X-rays. Following the scans, the doctor came in and, looking concerned, asked if we knew the way to La Chorrera. “Of course, we just came from there” I proudly replied, because I’m not new here and I know my way around Panama. And then came the bombshell: “Dios Mios, why did you come here? He needs to see a surgeon tonight.”

Gulp.

Oopsies.

I hate it when I’m wrong. I had spent the entire time reassuring Garrett it was just a minor jam, nothing serious, and that he needed to toughen up. I even offered to set it for him (I’m not qualified for that. But I’ve seen movies, and what I lack in qualifications I make up for in confidence that I can figure anything out. Hindsight, this might be a toxic trait.) Now, we were being sent to an actual hospital, even farther than where’d just come back from, to see a doctor on a Saturday night. It was 5:30 PM, and the hospital was an hour and a half away, sin traffic.

Looking back, I was really wishing we’d gone cliff-jumping in the rain.

We left the clinic to head back toward the city, with Panama’s pothole-riddled roads making Garrett’s pain very apparent with each jolt and bump. Oh, and let me add, Panama isn’t exactly generous with painkillers (if they even give them at all), so he was soldiering through the agony of a severely broken toe with nothing but Tylenol.

Panama’s hospital system can be divided into three categories: public hospitals (free or low-cost), social security hospitals (common but often plagued by long queues), and private hospitals (pricier but faster service and more say in your care). Given the seriousness of the situation, we opted for a private hospital, and the fact that Garrett is the love of my life (despite my teasing), prompted me to make sure we had a say in where, when, and by whom he would be treated.

Late on a Saturday night, after four-hours of driving, we sought a trusted friend’s advice on which hospital to choose (thanks, Marc!).

Full disclosure: We don’t have medical insurance here. It’s not mandatory, we’re usually in good health, and healthcare costs are reasonable.

Upon arriving at the hospital, we were informed that the surgeon had called it a night, and we’d have to wait until Monday. After some back-and-forth, they agreed to get a hold of the on-call orthopedic surgeon if I paid a deposit.

The deposit was $700, and they escorted us to the ER where we waited only about half an hour for the surgeon to arrive to the hospital. In the States, we have a running joke that ER visits inevitably mean staying past 1 AM (probably for that extra insurance payout), so we were shocked by the fast service.

The surgeon ordered more X-rays from a different angle, presented us with three options: 1) surgery for the best recovery, 2) a straightforward setting of the bone, or 3) doing nothing but casting it and playing the waiting game, which would likely mean a lifetime of mobility issues for the toe. Given the late hour and the gravity of the decision, we opted for the second option and promised to schedule surgery later in the week. After all, no one should have surgery hours after having Taco Bell.

Now, the doctor warned me to sit down and look away, he explained that spouses often faint during bone-setting procedures. He numbed the area (still no pain meds), gave it a good yank, and set it. Garrett claimed it didn’t hurt a bit during the setting, and the pressure vanished immediately. The doctor even declared it the best set he’d ever done (although he probably says that to everyone), but he insisted on more X-rays to ensure everything was properly aligned. Miraculously, it was, and the remaining fracture wouldn’t require surgery. They wrapped it up, put Garrett in a medical boot, and prescribed extra-strength Tylenol. Since it was late and my Spanish isn’t very good, the doctor even escorted me to the pharmacy to help me get the coveted extra strength version.

The grand total of our hospital adventure: $500 for the hospital bill (with a $200 refund from the deposit), $350 for the on-call after-hours surgeon, and $100 for the medical boot. The orthopedic surgeon gave Garrett his personal cell phone number just in case we had questions and thanked us for letting him practice his English on a Saturday night.

Our initially simple and budget-friendly family outing morphed into a 12-hour odyssey, complete with six hours of driving and a cool $1,000 in medical expenses. But you know what? It was an enlightening crash course in the healthcare system, it generated hilariously unforgettable memories, and most importantly, it reminded Garrett that he’s no spring chicken anymore. Next time we are cliff jumping in the rain.