Seeing Paris through the back of an ambulance

I had initially planned for my first blog post à Paris to be about the wonderful meal I had upon arrival - fantastic in that it was my first in the city. Perhaps for a later time because last night, I was sitting in a wheel chair with one shoe off, waiting to be seen by a doctor.

I’m training for the Paris Marathon, to be run in April, and I went for my first run yesterday. Hearing the Avengers theme as I’m running up on the Eiffel Tower is an entirely new experience and filled me such joy. Ten minutes later, as I ran past Place de la Concorde, I tripped. And didn’t stumble. I fell flat out in front of a whole crowd of people, being asked if I was okay in French and English. You ever do something embarrassing and freeze, wishing desperately you could sink through the ground? That was me. I was also struggling to pause my blasting music so I could hear what was going on. Everyone was staring at me as I picked myself up, noticed the dirt on my hands, and hobbled over to the wall. I have no idea how I tripped - I’m normally very good on my feet when I run and the surface looked pretty even. Maybe it was the dodging everyone in my way. However, it happened and I was doing all I could not to cry - the pain in my ankle was tremendous. A very kind French woman who looked to be about my age asked if I was okay, if I wanted her to call a taxi. I waved her off, saying “Merci, but I’m okay.” I knew my run was over - that was incredibly frustrating as I was almost two miles into it, but I turned around and limped back towards my little island. I was going at a pretty good clip, passing those strolling along Quai Francois Mitterand. But my ankle was protesting in true French form and I decided that, even though I knew I could make it home, better not to chance any more damage and started to call a taxi. Then I felt dizzy, propped myself up against a wall and tried to take deep breaths. 5 minutes for a taxi. That’s a while, but whatever, I can wait -

There’s a moment when you wake up and you’re so acutely aware of the physical. When I came to, I could feel my neck was turned awkwardly, that my cheek was pressed against something very cold and grainy, that my chest was turned down and I was sprawled out, like some dropped marionette. Other than that initial moment of clarity, I don’t remember how I was able to stand up. I just remember a man asking me if I’d like to sit down. I think there was some moment of recognition that I had been unconscious, that sitting down would be fine and that my cheek hurt. He guided me over to a bench, facing the Left Bank and the buildings on the Quai Voltaire. He and his girlfriend kept asking me if I was okay and I didn’t know what to say, other than explain to them that I had tripped ten minutes before and c’est premiere temp I passed out. I answered in the affirmative when she asked if I wanted an ambulance and his hand never left my wrist. And then everything went dark, quickly, like an animated transition in a PowerPoint presentation. It was scary but also makes me think that I’d be a boring character in a horror movie because I didn’t panic and scream at suddenly being blind. Within a few seconds, my sight came back to me, the world looking very much like a black and white film negative or a wooden print carving. Looking down at my sneakers, they changed from blobs to outlines to bursts of colors. It was the weirdest sensation, observing this phenomena of the eyes. When my sight was fully restored, I looked at the couple that was helping me. Both incredibly beautiful in the way French people are. Nicholas and Linda. Waiting for the ambulance, I learned he had gone to law school in Montreal and she had visited Boston once and loved it. I also learned that there is no French equivalent of the expression “Shit happens” and they themselves use it in English to apply to such situations as this. I kept apologizing for not speaking French (which I did a lot of, last night), and for taking them away from their evening. “It’s not even 5 o’clock,” Nicholas reassured me. “We have a lot of time.” They waited with me to flag down the ambulance, making that Minion ambulance sound - Wee-ooh. Wee-ooh. I should’ve grabbed their phone number so I could take them to dinner in gratitude for just being caring people, but they handed me off to the Andy Dalton-looking EMT with a “You’re welcome”.

I’m going to just stop for a second and say that French EMTs are beautiful and not in that odd savior-complex kind of way. Because all three EMTs in the ambulance were so beautiful in a way I could tell had nothing to with their uniforms or their constant checking in with me to see if I was okay. Anyway…

Trying to communicate what happened in a language I have zero confidence in is, naturally, incredibly frustrating. I did have the presence of mind to type everything into Google Translate and screenshot the translation to show the intern that came to look at me. I also had no idea what to expect and I’ve learned that going to a French hospital isn’t that different from going to an American one. Comparing this trip to the one I took in November 2018 because I thought I was having a heart attack, the only real difference was how much further away the French hospital was. I got picked up near the Ecole du Louvre in the 1st and the hospital was all the way down in the 14th arrondissement. But once there, there was a lot of waiting. I waited to be admitted, waited to be checked in, waited to see a doctor, waited for an X-ray, waited to see the Chief of Emergency. At the end of the night, I had been there for about five hours, all the while texting my friends and taking pictures of the abrasion on my face. Oh. And no one came to verify my insurance or ask for a co-payment (not that I could’ve paid - all I had on me was my American driver’s license, my keys, my headphones, and my phone). But most of it was the same. The nurses and doctors in their blue scrubs and those atrocious Crocs. The strange sounds of bodies in illness. A nurse trying to wake up an incredibly drunk homeless person. The beeps of machines. Pretty much what you’d expect from a developed country’s healthcare system.

The intern wheeled me around and I was briefly reminded of the Grey’s Anatomy episode where Meredith got lost while her teenage patient was telling her she was the worst doctor ever. God bless Camille - she was so patient with me and apologized to me for not speaking English very well. Passing my phone back and forth, I managed to tell her that I was healthy, this had never happened before, that the last time I drank was Monday and that was one drink. She kept me informed of everything that was happening. She got me to X-Ray and everything looked good - no break. Just… “a lot of pain.” When she got me back to my room, the Chief came in and showed her how to wrap my foot (after telling me that I can walk on it - yeah, I know that; it just hurts an effing lot). I was given a prescription for some pain killers and for another medication that would protect my stomach from those painkillers. I also must wear an air cast over my ankle for three weeks.

Obviously, that last bit is the worst of it. Ignoring the fact that it’s only my second day in this city, most of my time here was going to center around training for the marathon. If I can’t run (indeed, I can hardly walk), how’s that going to work out for me? I got a little passive aggressive notification from my workout app this morning, saying it’s been a while since I last did anything. Being hindered by my mobility should be fun, just like getting chubbier. But running has been a constant pain in the ass that I’ve gotten used to; I love that mental self-encouragement and self-criticism that comes from completing certain distances in less than stellar time. Three weeks is more than enough time to throw off my already messed up routine and make me hate running one mile when I have to run 26.2. What is it going to be like the first time I put on my running shoes and try to train? Will I be scared? Will I be pissed? Will I hate every decision I’ve made that has lead to me training for a marathon in Paris?

So many questions about my future that I’m not stopping to appreciate the baguette I hobbled down the street for or the fact that I’m holed up in my tiny Parisian flat on my tiny Parisian island. I’m so mad about what this spill has done to my training schedule that I’ve forgotten to be grateful that I could get seen. Like everything, looking towards the future is creating anxiety and agitation in the present and that’s not what life is really about.

I never did find out why I passed out - I’m going to self-diagnose and say it was the trifecta of dehydration, jet-lagged exhaustion, and only having a crepe in the last 24 hours. Note to the unwise: don’t run if you’re tired, thirsty, and hungry.

Right now, my ankle is killing me and I’m exhausted from making my way to the boulangerie for that baguette. I’ve been spending the last couple of hours trying to gather strength to venture to the pharmacy two very long blocks from my apartment to get those painkillers. My face hurts (my mother tried to make a “well, it’s killing me!” dad joke last night), but I actually think the abrasion looks kind of cool. At least, I think it does, until I remember that I booked a photoshoot tomorrow. How glamorous will I be with my limping and a giant wound on my face? I’ll look like a World War I soldier, but with bigger hair and no bayonet. I’m in that weird stage of both being hungry and feeling incredibly full that comes with not having eaten nearly enough in the last three days. I’m feeling a little pissed that I won’t really be able to do anything outside because it takes too long and too much energy to get there, but that it’s also quite cold and I packed the wrong sorts of things. I’m not looking forward to my expedition down the street.

But, you know, as the French say, “Shit happens.” And as my friend Joli said, “We knew the experience would leave a mark on you, just didn’t know it would happen so quickly.” Well, you know me.

I like to hit the ground running.