I am always so coordinated. Never spilling, dropping, or running into anything. People who know me often say, “Wow, Sarah- you are quite the master of coordination”. Okay, so now the people who know me are laughing…because I am not at all coordinated. If you can spill it- I’ll spill it. If you can break it- I will most likely break it. And if something is in the middle of my line of direction, I will probably not see it and run into it.
Now let’s talk about my butt. Yes, my butt.
It all happened on a Sunday night at approximately 6:14 pm, maybe 6:18- the night before my company’s biggest local marketing event for the year. I had worked almost one full year preparing for this event. About a month before the event, I became so stressed and crazy in my preparations that most people just chose to stay out of my way and let me focus. Back to Sunday night, I was running around at the hotel in which the event was being hosted, shouting commands to various people and moving equipment that would be on display at the event. I asked one of the guys to help me move one of the thirty heavy tables that the hotel had promised to move, but didn’t, when all of a sudden I brushed against another table. Immediately a numbing sensation went through my lower left side. I looked back to see a heavy wooden table, with a thick glass top- this was just like the other 29 hotel tables that need moving- only this one, was chipped at the corner. Chipped in a way that a sharp glass dagger protruded from the corner, calling to my butt as its prey for the evening.
At first, I didn’t know what had happened. I knew my pants were ripped but I wasn’t sure of the damage that was lying beneath. I immediately began walking as fast as I could across the 1200sqm ballroom to the bathroom on the other side. The bathroom mirror told the truth- I had just encountered a serious injury and it wasn’t pretty. Working with all men has its disadvantages, like not being able to show them my wound- especially in a country like Qatar.
After a quick phone call to reception, a hotel nurse soon came to take a look. She assessed my assets and confirmed- my next trip would be to the hospital.
Off to the hospital emergency room I went, tears falling down my cheeks. I’m not sure whether the tears came from the pain, the embarrassment, or the fact that I had to leave my baby- aka the marketing event.
The emergency room was clean, calm, and quite. I think my butt was the highlight of the night. After showing several nurses the wound, a male Indian doctor came in to take a look and tell me what the plan was. He seemed frightened at first. He had entered a room which included: my exposed American butt, me crying and laughing at the same time, my Austrailian friend cracking butt jokes, and my Brazilian HR manager taking photos with her iPhone. He had not anticipated this when he pictured his emergency room evening. I could tell he was nervous. But not as nervous as I was.
“Seven stitches,” he concluded right before he injected the wound with two full needles of numbing medicine. I began screaming and crying at the sight of the needles, laughter filled the room, and the sewing began, one stitch at a time. Before I knew it, it was over. These were the first stitches that I have ever had in my life. The doctor gave me the do’s and don’ts for the next ten days and also told me that I cried more than the one year old child that he had stitched up only 15 minutes before me. Nice, right?
Still reading? Just checking. For ten days, I hobbled around while being teased by co-workers. It was impossible to take a break from work, so instead I just walked slowly and swallowed pain pills every two hours. The butt is not the ideal places for stitches- it is affected by every move you make- sitting, standing, or moving. After five days, I went in for a check-up at the emergency room. One problem-the male Arab doctor who was on duty was too embarrassed and scared to take more than a five second look at my butt. I yelled after him as he ran quickly out of the room “Can I still get them removed in five more days?”. “Sure,” he responded and exited, head down.
Finally on the tenth day, I went to the hospital for the removal of the stitches. The same doctor who installed the stitches was there to remove. I was relieved not to have the embarrassed, unprofessional Arab doctor again. One problem, after removing the seventh stitch, I hear him say “Hmmmmm”. “What does that mean?” I exclaimed. “Didn’t stay together,” he answered. Just great, I thought. The doctor told me he would put on the non-surgical sticky stitches and for me to leave them on for about four more days.
Its been one week since that last visit. In the meantime, I have received a second opinion from a female doctor who wasn’t scared to get close. She said it looked fine; she even called my wound ‘charming’ and said it would leave a cute scar. The wound is still healing and I am still in pain.
Two good things have come out of this experience:
1. I have now tested out the medical facilities in the country.
2. My butt is now charming.
Note: A video was taken by a certain Brazilian during this incident. I must admit, it’s quite funny. Maybe one day I will share.
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