It was 1979. I was 32 years old. The ambulance was using its blue lights and the siren to rush me to the hospital. Of course it was Sunday… no doctors…
X-ray… it wasn’t clear what was wrong. I was in and out of consciousness. Internal bleeding.
From the person who was in the operating room, the huge red haired Russian doctor, 6 foot 5 or so, I knew I was on gynecology… She was dressing in to do surgery on me.
A young doctor, maybe a resident, set by me all night, holding my hand… I was moaning and carrying on all night… I was told.
In the end I was buried under six comforters: I was cold and shivered uncontrollably. Losing copious amount of blood can do that to you.
As you ca