by John Higham
Stockholm is a city surrounded by water. We arrived in August at the peak of Europe’s travel season and had just visited the Vasa, a ship built in the early 17th century. It was to be the grandest vessel on the water, and it was for about 40 seconds, until it sank on its maiden voyage. There it sat on the bottom of Stockholm Bay, until it was found and raised in 1961 and restored with a museum built around it. We were now on a pedal boat in the waterways where Lake Mälaren meets the Baltic Sea. The kids were entertaining themselves by blowing long strings of soap bubbles as September and I pedaled along.
“Science Moment!” I declared. I had introduced Science Moments as a way to stay in the classroom, even though I had been unofficially expelled. Anytime I saw something cool, I would explain why it was cool. Nevertheless, I heard a collective groan from my captive audience.
“Dad’s in a good mood because he is pedaling in the sunshine,” September said. “Humor him with his Science Moment.”
“I was just thinking about that ship, the Vasa,” I began. “It floated for 40 seconds and then flipped upside-down and sank. What makes a boat float? What makes it sink? What made that boat flip upside-down? Why doesn’t the boat that we’re on right now flip upside-down?”
The kids desperately avoided making eye contact.
“Don’t everyone raise your hands at once.”
Jordan held up his bottle of bubble soap. “These bubbles have special powers in them. Every third Thursday they generate a force field around children that Science Moments can’t penetrate!”
I let it go. True, I was only pedaling a paddle boat and not my beloved tandem, but in August the Stockholm days are long and the skies clear and it’s a great place for anyone who likes the color blue. We weren’t progressing toward Istanbul, but pedaling in the sunshine made me think that perhaps it didn’t really matter.
7.
Chocolate Vomit Is a Medical Emergency!
August 20–September 8
Denmark/Germany
We began to slowly make our way back to Zermatt to pick up our tandems. On Katrina’s six-week anniversary we planned to stop wherever we happened to be and have her cast removed. A week or so later we would arrive in Zermatt, ready to ride.
That was the plan. Step one was to take the train from Stockholm to Copenhagen, Denmark. There is nothing like “real life” to screw up a good plan.
Jordan’s Journal, August 19
Today we went on a train. I ate two candy bars then I barfed. Some of the barf went into Katrina’s cast. Then we went on two more trains and then we went to our campground. We are in Copenhagen, Denmark now.
The smell emanating from the cast had been bad enough, but now it was horrid beyond words. Unless we had a wheelchair, I carried Katrina on my shoulders when we had to walk anywhere significant, so I had a front-row seat to the offending fume factory, as the top of her thigh-high cast was only inches from my nose.
It had been nearly six weeks since Katrina’s accident and it was time once again for a follow-up visit to a doctor. With the cast in its current shape it simply needed to come off, even if it meant another would replace it. We arrived at a campground near Copenhagen eager to find a doctor, but the lone attendant at the campground was occupied with a couple ahead of us.
The couple’s thick accent was clearly Italian, the camp manager’s Dutch, yet they were speaking in English. I had been impatient, but the paradox soon got the best of me and I listened. The Italian couple was making friendly comments about Tivoli Gardens, a famous landmark of the city. The Italians spoke loudly and with their hands. The Dutch camp manager kept backing away, as if threatened, yet the couple advanced, unaware they were slowly backing their prey into a corner.
A few moments later the Italian couple left and the manager seemed relieved as he turned his attention to us. “Italians,” he said. “They come every August and are so loud. I’m sorry that there is a group of them near your cabin.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” September explained. “I need to speak to a doctor.”
“You will not be able to find a doctor this late on a Friday,” replied the manager. Writing on a slip of paper, he continued, “Here is the phone number for the emergency room at the hospital. This is the only doctor that will answer a phone until Monday morning.”
September got the on-call physician on our cell phone and explained the situation.
“I’m sorry,” said the unsympathetic doctor on the other end, “but office hours for the week are over throughout the entire country. If you have an emergency, you can bring the patient to the emergency room at the hospital where someone is always on call.”
“This is an emergency!” September pleaded desperately into the phone. “We can’t get into the same room with that cast smelling the way it does!”
“I should have been more exact,” explained the physician. “A life threatening emergency. I’ll tell you what, though. Bring your daughter to my office first thing Monday morning and we’ll do what we can.”
“Whoever heard of an entire medical system shutting down for the weekend?” September protested, placing the cell phone down on the table.
It was time I took matters into my own hands. I contemplated our options and then …
“What are you looking for?” September asked.
“That blasted wilderness survival saw that I couldn’t get you to part with.”
Suddenly September’s countenance brightened. “You mean the one you tried to throw out, but I rescued? The one that you thought was a total waste of space? You want it now? You need it?”
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth.
“What do you need it for? Does this have anything to do with the fact that Katrina can’t see the doctor until Monday morning?”
“Well, yes, it does.” I shared my plan with September. “The contaminated part of the cast is over her thigh. Doctor Julen told us we might be able to get a shortened cast at four weeks that only comes to her knee. The doctor in Sweden didn’t want to do that because he didn’t want to disturb the leg by removing the cast. I’m going to cut off the top six inches so that her cast will come to the knee. That will get rid of the contaminated section without disturbing her leg.”
“We could just remove the entire cast and be done with it,” September suggested. “The six-week point is only a few days away.”
We had been discussing Katrina’s leg so much in recent days and second-guessing doctors’ diagnoses that it was difficult to separate fact from wishful thinking. We had gone so far as to practically force-feed Katrina yogurt and ice cream, thinking the extra calcium was going to perform some miracle, even though my Internet research showed this was of dubious merit. I pulled out Katrina’s two X-rays, taken four weeks apart, to re-establish fact.
“The two X-rays look so similar,” I said, scratching my chin. “Didn’t Dr. Julen tell us she would have to wear the cast for six to eight weeks? We’ve been counting on six, but…”
I had this “vision” in my head. I would remove the cast, Katrina would take one step and then collapse onto the ground. “We can’t just cut it off if there is any risk of reinjuring her leg,” I contemplated. “But it should be okay to remove the top six inches.”
The “saw” was nothing more than a wire with teeth. I took Katrina outside and propped up her leg on a picnic table; she grasped the edge of the bench with rapid shallow breathing and white knuckles. Yet I don’t know who panicked more, September or Katrina.
“Don’t you think scissors would be safer?” exclaimed September, maneuvering herself between me and her daughter.
“No, I don’t. Trust me.”
Katrina’s fear of the saw was overcome by the yearning to get rid of her cast, if only the top few inches, so she could bend her leg.
It took much longer than anticipated, in no small part due to Katrina squealing in terror at the slightest hint of pressure on her leg. But eventually the top six inches was removed, along with zero bits of flesh.
“Tr
y bending your knee, Little One,” I said. After weeks of immobility, she could bend it only slightly. “Monday morning we’ll go see the doctor, tell her it’s been six weeks, and hopefully be done with it.”
• • •
We celebrated the last weekend of Katrina’s cast by going to Tivoli Gardens and also to the planetarium. Tycho Brahe, the astronomer who was instrumental along with Johann Kepler in formulating the planetary laws of motion that I had studied in graduate school, was a Copenhagen native. To go to Copenhagen and not visit the planetarium that bears his name would be a disgrace. In the following months Jordan would inform us repeatedly that the Tycho Brahe Planetarium was the only “museum” he liked. I think that’s because it came with an IMAX movie.
Sunday night came and with it big plans for the following day. It had been a long, waterless summer for two kids who love to swim. To celebrate, we planned to visit Copenhagen’s biggest water park as soon as we were rid of the cast. The following morning came with a brilliant sun and a beautiful blue sky that seemed to be full of hope. “It’s over a mile to the train station,” September said as Katrina and I made our way out the door. “Are you sure you’ll be able to carry her?”
“Been there, done that,” I replied. We had outgrown our tradition of looking for a wheelchair immediately upon our arrival in a new city; Katrina and I had both gotten a lot stronger. I would carry her for a few blocks, and then she would use her crutches for a few blocks; in that fashion we could cover a lot of ground. “Once we get out of the doctor’s office,” I said, “I’ll call the cell phone and we can rendezvous at the water park.”
At the examining room I gave the doctor a rundown of our plight: We were cycling from London to Istanbul when Katrina broke her leg in Switzerland. We hoped to return to cycling before the summer was over, yada, yada, yada. It was Denial 101. I had told myself so many times that we were going to return to Zermatt and cycle off to Istanbul that I created a scenario in my mind in which, if the doctor felt sorry for us, she would give Katrina the desired diagnosis.
The physician was a competent pediatric orthopedic specialist and listened sympathetically. Of course, our plight didn’t change the facts.
Examining a fresh X-ray she said, “There is a five-millimeter gap in the bone at the fracture point.” She looked at me with pity. “With this kind of a break, it can take months for the bone to heal.”
Katrina started sobbing right there in the examining room.
“It is very important to keep the cast in place until the calcification process is complete and a callous has formed over the entire fracture,” she continued. “You must have the leg x-rayed to verify this before the cast is removed.” Maintaining eye contact, she spoke slowly and clearly while enunciating each syllable with the proper inflection to emphasize her point. As if she could read my thoughts, she continued, “Do not expect any significant change for at least two to three weeks, and probably much longer.”
By the time I crossed through the doorway, the doctor was making me feel grateful she didn’t replace the cast I had shortened with one the original length.
On our way out, I stopped at the receptionist’s desk to settle the bill. “Can I have your E.U. card?” the woman behind the desk asked.
I had been asked this question in Sweden, so I gave the same response. “I don’t have one. I’m a U.S. citizen traveling in Europe for an extended period. I’ll just pay cash and my insurance company will reimburse me directly.” This worked in Sweden where they were happy to take my cash. Not so in Denmark.
“Cash?” She gave me a look as though she had never heard of the stuff before. After much hand-wringing she concluded that she really didn’t know what amount to charge me, nor how to accept the filthy lucre if she did. Finally the receptionist handed me a yellow Post-it note and said, “Just write down your name and your address in the United States. We will send you a bill in a few days.”
They never did. Danish travelers we later met were aghast that the hospital would even consider sending a bill, reacting the way an American might react to, say, the concept of censorship of the press.
John’s Journal, August 22
In the past six weeks Katrina has occasionally seemed on the verge of depression, but 90% of the time she has been a real trouper. Now all pretense of keeping a stiff upper lip is gone. It is doubtful we will be able to continue cycling to Istanbul.
I don’t want to write about it anymore.
The following two weeks were spent in the company of Mrs. Happy. She was the disembodied too-chirpy-for-her-own-good voice of our German rental car’s GPS device. We flew to Munich from Copenhagen knowing we needed to return to the tandems in Zermatt, but unsure when and under what circumstances. Our budget had been calibrated for camping and cycling throughout Europe. Now we were driving through Germany from hostel to hostel; every time I opened my wallet it was to the accompaniment of a giant sucking sound.
Mrs. Happy led us all over Germany, from the Black Forest to the Neuschwanstein castle, rarely leading us astray. Occasionally she became confused, such as when she demanded we drive straight into the Danube’s flooded banks; even then it was impossible to get angry with Mrs. Happy, who became the family’s arbitrator whenever deciding which exit to take and when. We concluded every married couple should have two sinks in the master bath and an in-dash GPS device.
Eventually there was no denying our cycling trip was over and we needed to return to Switzerland to ship the tandems home. We arrived in Friedrichshafen on the German side of Lake Constance as we were making those preparations.
www.360degreeslongitude.com/concept3d/360degreeslongitude.kmz
Mrs. Happy led us to Mr. Helpful. Use Google Earth and the 360 Degrees Longitude layer to see why “helpful” isn’t always such a super idea.
If it hadn’t been for cyclus interruptus, we would have passed through Friedrichshafen about two months earlier. The broken leg had all the drama of an eight-week-long root canal; being on the shores of Lake Constance with warm sunshine put the fine point on our forced change in plans. I busied myself looking out over the water and counting people cycling the path along the shore. I then heard a voice. “It’s been two weeks. We should get Katrina’s leg x-rayed again.” It was September speaking.
“Why?” I said. “One definition of ‘crazy’ is doing something more than once and expecting a different outcome. The doctor in Copenhagen said at least two or three weeks, but it was pretty clear to me she was trying to sugarcoat the real prognosis of two or three months.”
“Well, that’s completely different from what Dr. Julen told us way back in Zermatt. More data can’t hurt.”
Ah, it was the familiar “more data” debate. “Have I ever told you—” But I was cut off.
“Yes, I’ve heard your ‘analysis paralysis’ stories a thousand times. This is different. We aren’t about to launch a rocket.”
We went back and forth for a while, but I was really arguing for the intellectual stimulation; it lifted my spirits. September understands this about me.
Once again, we took Katrina to see a doctor and have her leg x-rayed, explaining to the doctor how we came to be in his office. He looked at the X-rays of her leg that we had in our possession. “The cast must come off today!” he declared with authority. “I don’t need an X-ray to tell me that!”
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
The doctor took an X-ray of her leg anyway and the 5-mm gap in the bone was still clearly displayed, but he stood his ground. “The cast absolutely must come off today.”
Not only was that contrary to the Danish doctor, but it was contrary to my gut instincts as an engineer. I exclaimed, “But doctor, there is no bone there. No structure to support the weight! Won’t she just refracture her leg?!”
“It’s a risk,” he said, reaching for his electric saw, “but the bone will heal much faster if it is out of the cast. I’m surprised that the bone has healed so little in the past eight weeks. If we leave
it in the cast it will be months before it heals completely. In cases like this, the bone needs some stimulation as a catalyst for the healing process.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Why didn’t they tell us that in Denmark?”
“There are many kinds of fractures.” The good doctor smiled and pointed to several framed photos on the wall of skiers schussing down impossibly steep inclines. “Denmark is a flat country.”
I stood there with a stupid expression, trying to take in this meaning, but his saw was already cutting the plaster. “Her leg is still broken,” the doctor said, removing the cast. “It will be several weeks before Katrina will be able to walk without crutches. Absolutely no running, cycling, or other contact sports for several weeks. Katrina will know when she is ready.” As we were making our way from the doctor’s office, he remarked in an offhanded way, “Just don’t trip or stumble!”
Thanks for the confidence boost, Doc.
We packaged up our bicycle panniers and shipped them home. Then we purchased bona fide suitcases at Wal-Mart and abandoned at the train station the moving dolly we had purchased in Krakow. We then said our good-byes to Mrs. Happy and boarded the 5:30 p.m. ferry across Lake Constance to Romanshorn, Switzerland.
www.360degreeslongitude.com/concept3d/360degreeslongitude.kmz
Intellectual Man Strikes Again! Jordan loved making his own comic books, but scoffed at my suggestion of a superhero named Intellectual Man. Use Google Earth and the 360 Degrees Longitude layer to see what happens next.
8.
Touch It, Wimp!
September 6–September 17
Switzerland … again
You’ve gotta be joking.”
Katrina gave me a hurt puppy dog look and asked, “Why not?” Jordan and I had left September and Katrina 13 hours earlier to retrieve our tandems from Zermatt. After zipping across Switzerland by train, whiling away the time reading or watching sitcoms on my e.brain, Jordan and I were now rendezvousing with September and Katrina in the small mountain valley of Lauterbrunnen according to plan. September and Katrina had found us a place to stay and were waiting at the train station. Katrina wanted to ride the tandem. Now.