I’ve been in Croatia (my first time ever) less than an hour before the accident. They just now zipped the guy laying next to me into a body bag, and I don’t like the way they’re looking at me. None of this would have happened if my wife hadn’t … I mean if the airlines hadn’t … I mean … Maybe I should start at the beginning.
Three years ago, my wife, Ren, gave me a card in recognition of our 49th wedding anniversary. And “the look” — I had forgotten to get her anything. I quickly promised her something special for our 50th.
She hates jewelry. She’s been grousing to replace our kitchen cabinets but that didn’t seem very romantic; and what does “dated” even mean? But we love to travel, so I started thinking about a trip. With a year to plan, my thinking grew grandiose — a once-in-a-lifetime trip, somewhere exotic – and why not bring the whole family, our 3 kids, their spouses and the then 5 now 6 grandkids, 14 of us in all? Expensive, sure, but really special!
When the kids were growing up, we would pack them into the minivan for Washington D.C., Disney World, and Yellowstone, etc., but mostly to our kid’s favorite destination: the Wisconsin Dells. (Somehow, the thrill of waking up in a tent surrounded by a herd of wild bison doesn’t quite match the thrill, in the eyes of an adolescent, of standing in line for the “Death Plunge” at Noah’s Ark.)
But as “empty-nesters,” we had begun travelling overseas — often to places our friends consider exotic. So somewhere like that; a place so cool that our adult kids wouldn’t have “something come up” at the last minute.
Our 3 kids, now in their 40s, are all non-profit executives, accustomed to making decisions, and determined to change the world — but only toward their own personal vision for a better world. So herding our clan from point to point, in an organized manner, could lead to inter-family homicide. I wanted them with us, but not too tightly bunched.
I would need a place big enough for 14, close enough to a variety of cool things for family groups (or cross-family groups, the grandkids get along great) to see and do as they pleased. And with a view, Ren would insist on that. And a pool or a beach; the kids would insist on that. And not too expensive; I would insist on that. Easy-peasy, a place that sleeps 14, with a pool, and a great view, in an exotic location, close to cool stuff, and cheap.
And I found it! A 6 bedroom “villa” (plus 2 fold-out beds), with a pool, overlooking the small village of Ljubac (you-bach) on the north end of the Dalmatian Coast, within a couple hours drive of all sorts of cool places. Exotic? No one in our family had ever been there, or even knew anyone who had. Not as cheap as I had hoped, but significantly cheaper than Italy, across the Adriatic, and slightly cheaper than the more touristy Southern Dalmatian Coast.
Amazingly, our often-contentious kids bought in, so I booked the place, sight unseen, for 3 weeks in the summer of 2020, ending on the date of our 50th Anniversary – to surprise Ren.
Then Covid hit; people our age were dying. So I got some of my money back and re-booked for 2021; Covid was sure to be over by then. I got another “look” from Ren, but the kids convinced her it would be worth the wait. By now, Ren had figured out her surprise was a trip somewhere.
Except Covid wasn’t over in 2021. Mentally all-in, I advocated for going anyway, but the kids unanimously said no. Again I got some of my money back, and re-booked for 2022 – to celebrate our 52nd anniversary. By now, Ren wasn’t buying any of it; I might be able to fool the kids, but she was on to my scam.
Finally, the summer of 2022 arrived, and our trip was a “go.” Ren & I were scheduled to be the first to arrive, a day or so ahead of the rest (each family making separate travel plans, of course). But while we were in the air to Toronto, our flight to Munich was cancelled. So we got there last, exhausted and sans luggage.
The “Villa” checked all the boxes, a great pool, overlooking olive groves and vineyards sloping down to picturesque Ljubac, on the beautiful Adriatic; with two fantastic national parks within 90-min drive, and twenty other villages and forty beaches (each unique) within a 30-min drive. None of which I ever saw – due to the accident.
The five older kids were enjoying the pool when we arrived, and I
was eager to join them (in my underwear, swimsuit in the lost luggage). The pool was edged with non-slip tile, but the stairs down to the pool were slick even when dry – which they weren’t due to the water fight in progress.
I fell hard, breaking my ankle. But I knew immediately that my ankle was a minor concern. Except for skin and veins, my knee was no longer connected to my thigh, all the tendons at the top of my kneecap completely severed.
My left leg still worked, and our son is very strong. He was able to help me up the steps, in my underwear and a robe two sizes too small, into our rental car, which Ren drove to a hospital in Zadar, 30 min away. Where an E. R. doc, who spoke fluent English, gave me the news I was expecting – immediate surgery required. I kissed Ren goodbye as they wheeled me away.
They took me to a hospital room with 5 other men, none of whom spoke English. I’m not bi-polar, but this was a dark moment. I blamed myself for my carelessness. I blamed our VRBO host for the dangerous steps. I doubly blamed the airlines; the fall would not have happened if I hadn’t been exhausted, or if wearing the flip-flops lost with my luggage. Despairing that I had not only ruined my own vacation, but also that of my whole family, I immediately started working on my speech about how they shouldn’t let my accident ruin their vacation.
My spirits did not improve, the next morning, when a team of nurses (I’m using the term “nurse” to describe all the women in uniform that came in and out of my room during my stay) put the man in the next bed into a body bag and zipped it shut. Is this how I’d be leaving? In a body bag?
I tried to engage my still-living roommates about this incident, but the language barrier was insurmountable. I thought that perhaps one of the younger nurses might speak English, but they were in and out so quickly I couldn’t tell. The man in the bed on my other side seemed in bad shape; surely he would get bagged soon. Did anyone walk out of this hospital?
I wasn’t wearing my watch on the way to the pool, nor carrying my phone, but it must have been at least 12 hours since I was admitted. Why had no member of my family come to visit? I junked my speech. My family had apparently determined, without my help, not to let my accident ruin their vacation. They were having a grand time – and had already forgotten about me,
Around noon, a nurse changed the bag dripping into my arm – apparently to a much stronger narcotic. When I woke up, late afternoon, with my 4 remaining roommates, none of whom had learned English during my absence, I was in a plaster cast, from thigh to ankle. Presumably, my severed tendons had been re-attached. Or had they? My family was clearly getting on with their vacation; while I was miserable – and perhaps the subject of strange experiments.
The man directly across from me, perhaps sensing my depression, made an effort to communicate, “Sprechen Sie Deutch?” My one semester of 9th grade German had taught me two things: languages were not my strong suit; and the word, “biblioteche.” I thought it meant library, which didn’t seem an appropriate response.
The Deutch-speaker used the remote to activate our one television. We watched a cop-drama (in Croatian, of course) featuring a wise older-female cop, a beautiful younger-female cop, and a male cop who so stupid he didn’t know which guy was the killer. I don’t speak Croatian, and I knew
At some point, my roomie turned off the TV and a nurse turned off the lights for the night. But sleep, I did not. I was in minimal pain, but uncomfortable in my cast, and racked with anxiety regarding the mistakes I had made in planning this trip — and in my life in general. And I was obsessed with the man to my right. Would he be “bagged” the next morning?
Eventually, it seemed days rather than hours, it got light outside our lone window. I studied the man to my right for signs of life, but couldn’t tell either way. When a nurse brought our breakfasts, she left a tray for him. He didn’t eat it, but I thought it encouraging that she left him one. But our breakfasts included a dry piece of bread, and a fish, head-on. The glassy eyeballs of this unfortunate fish cancelled my fleeting sense of encouragement.
A younger nurse picked up the trays – and she spoke English! I asked her when I would see my doctor? She seemed confused, so I repeated it slowly. But her English wasn’t the problem; my question confused her. One, she didn’t know who “my doctor” might be, and two, doctors dropping by to see their recovering patients did not seem to be standard practice. She promised to make inquiries.
As I waited for the possibility of seeing “my doctor,” or perhaps a family member, I worked on two speeches, one for “my doc” and one for my ungrateful family – both driven by the consideration that I might get only one chance.
“My doctor,” a doctor at any rate, he wore a lab coat, showed up around noon. He spoke English with a very heavy accent; I understood about half of what he said. “What do you want,” he asked? As in, “What could you possibly need that isn’t being provided by this wonderful hospital?”
I asked about my surgery. I think he said it went as well as could be expected. He went on to say that I could not bend my knee for ten weeks, at risk of ripping out the stitches, hence the heavy plaster cast. I didn’t get all the next part, but I think he said I would be in the hospital, this hospital, for ten weeks!
Though expecting more like three weeks, I had my argument ready. Though not a medical professional, I spent my career working in community mental health, and I fully understood the close relationship between mental health and physical health. This hospital, as charming as it might be, was not good for my mental health. I would be better off at “the villa,” in the bosom of my family — the family that hadn’t bothered to visit me.
I was ready to provide actual scientific data regarding the former, and to explain away the latter, but he seemed a busy man with no interest in arguing. “You’ll have to prove that you can – something I didn’t understand.” And left the room.
Another young nurse later translated. Before discharge, I would have to demonstrate proficiency (an obstacle course, perhaps) with one of those aluminum, 4-legged, walking devices. “Where do I get one,” I asked? “There are stores that carry such things, there’s one a few blocks from here,” she answered with a sweet smile as she hurried away.
My lack of mobility and absence of resources loomed large as I cast greedy eyes on the walker belonging to the Deutch-speaker across the aisle. He used it to go outside, several times a day, to smoke. Using crude sign-language, I attempted to negotiate a loan, for the purpose of practicing for my test. But my Deutch-speaking roommate either didn’t understand — or wasn’t as sympathetic to my plight as I had earlier imagined.
I brooded on this. Stealing it, or “borrowing it” without permission, was impossible. Less on ethical grounds than on logistics — I couldn’t reach it. I wasn’t sure I could even get out of bed, much less hop over there. Then magically, a walker appeared in the hands of a stern nurse I had not seen before. She did not speak English, so there was no explanation of the “walker’s” origin; but she gestured that it was time for my test. A test I had not prepared for.
I had not been out of bed since my surgery. I couldn’t even sit up without assistance. The testing nurse supported the weight of my heavy cast and impatiently barked orders in Croatian as I struggled to reach the floor with my good foot. When I finally did, she lowered my bad foot to the floor, and pointed at the walker. My first step elicited a loud, “No.” (Which is pretty much the same sound in all European Languages.)
Over the next 15 minutes, I managed to reach the door of my room, about 15 feet away, and back, under scathing criticism from the testing nurse. She had to recruit two more nurses to help me back into bed. I was exhausted. And clearly, I had failed the test! And she took the walker away. Would I ever get another chance?
Two hours later, a nurse handed me a bill, a number with many zeros. In country so briefly before my accident, I had not mastered the exchange rate. (Croatia had recently joined the E.U., but not yet converted to the Euro.) It was written in Croatian of course; I could not tell if it was for the walker, or the “test.” And I had no money either way. This nurse and I exchanged blank looks.
Two more hours went by, it was nearing dinner-time, more head-on fish, no doubt, when a small, middle-aged, non-English-speaking man, appeared with a gurney. He was wearing a vest with reflector tape, like road-repair guys wear.
He jacked the gurney up to the height of my bed and gestured for me to roll onto it. Where would he take me? Was I going back into surgery? Was I being evicted for not paying “the bill?” Was he wearing reflector tape because he was planning to dump my body in the road? I considered my options — and rolled onto the gurney.
Reflector tape man rolled me down a hallway into an elevator (excuse me, a “lift”), then down another hallway, onto a loading dock, and into what may have been an ambulance. (I never saw the outside of the vehicle, and I’d never been inside an ambulance before, but it seemed like one.) He strapped me in, went around to the driver’s seat – and we drove away.
My dream of getting out of that hospital was answered, but where was I going? (No windows, of course.) To a hospital where people spoke English? To a hospital for deadbeats who couldn’t pay their bills? To the airport for a flight back to the states? (Surely not a passenger plane in my condition, perhaps a Fed Ex plane?) Or was I being secreted away to some laboratory for nefarious “experiments? All seemed equally likely. Wherever we were going, we were in a hurry to get there — reflector tape man drove very fast over very bumpy roads.
Thirty minutes later, we were there; wherever there was? Mechanical wizardry caused the legs of the gurney to unfold as this small man pulled me out of the ambulance onto a gravel driveway — outside the villa I had rented for my family! My spirits soared; could this be true?
Reflector tape man rang the doorbell. No one answered. He rang again. Still no one. As he muttered in Croatian, I noticed there were no other vehicles around. Clearly, my family wasn’t here – no doubt having a grand time. There had been talk of a ferry to Venice, or a scenic drive over the mountains to Sarajevo. Were any of them still in Croatia?
The mystery was answered a moment later when a rental car pulled in behind us, and Ren got out. I had not been abandoned after all. No one had visited me in the hospital because Covid Protocols were still in effect at the hospital, and visitors strictly prohibited. (Though oddly, no one inside the hospital wore masks.)
In her back seat was a “walker” and a urinal (my son’s inspiration, which I came to appreciate). Ren had been paying my bill with her credit card as I left the loading dock, and could not keep up with my driver. Major surgery, casting, two nights in the hospital, and a 30 minute ambulance ride: just short of $1,000.
I spent the next 19 days at the villa, watching the grandkids in the pool and enjoying the spectacular view. The first couple of days, I needed help getting up or down, and that whole first week, adult family members took turns staying home with me while the rest enjoyed the beaches, parks, kayaking, exploring ancient fortresses and eating at great restaurants. The second week, as my mobility improved, I felt comfortable alone for a few hours as one family group would head out before another returned, bringing leftover meals and excited stories. The third and final week, they even brought me with them, in the long back, bench-seat of a rental car, to a very nice restaurant.
I never made it into the pool, or the Adriatic, or the national parks, or the various cities I had so much been looking forward to seeing – but I had a surprisingly good time!
And here’s why: If I had blown my knee at home, slipping on an icy sidewalk maybe, my kids and grandkids would all have come to see me — at least once. But they have busy lives, jobs, friends, little-league and soccer games, wrestling matches, paddle boarding, book clubs, etc. At our villa in Croatia, I spent more time with my grandkids each day than I usually do in a week – hearing their fresh excitement about the cool things they were seeing and doing.
If I had been at home, the burden of my after-care, both the physical assistance and the emotional support, would have fallen entirely on Ren. She would have been gracious about it of course, but over time she would have become resentful.
As it was, Ren was able to travel, even overnight, and thoroughly enjoy her well-deserved anniversary gift, knowing that one of our kids was taking good care of me. I’ll be her burden on our trip home, and even after we get home, but I’m getting around better each day. And my mental heath is pretty good – unless I’m only imagining that I’m happy.
Do I wish I had been more careful on those slippery steps? Of course. But it turns out that the first day of a 3-week family vacation is the best possible time to blow out your knee!
John is both a long-time Gopher fan (since the men’s BB lineup included Mel Northway, Brian Dvorachek, Paul Prestus and Terry Kunze), and a long-time volleyball enthusiast (learning to play from his high-school phy-ed teacher who would open the gym one night a week after basketball season ended).
In addition to attending a variety of Gopher sporting events over the years, John and Maureen have had season tickets for Gopher Volleyball for several years. John, a former Gopher Water Polo star, also coached the Gopher Men’s Water Polo Team from 1996 through 2003, and the Gopher Women’s Water Polo Team from 1998 through 2003. (Gopher Men’s & Women’s Water Polo are both “Club” teams, as is Gopher Men’s volleyball.)
John played (sometimes player-coaching) competitive volleyball (mostly 2x/wk, mostly class BB) through his early 50s, and since retirement, plays geezer volleyball with the BAJs, currently playing for the 70 & Over Team and coaching the 75 & Over Team. Maureen played Women’s-Rec volleyball for years, and their three adult children all still play competitively. (John coached the girls through J.O.s.)