Broken Bones, Budapest, and Fit to Fly

Traveling is a wonderful way to enrich your life but there are inherent dangers that we all hope won’t happen to us. After half a century of traveling, I  had an accident. My husband and I planned a 10-day trip to Europe, visiting Vienna and a long weekend in Budapest. Vienna was gorgeous, and hopefully I will write a blog post about it. We took the train to Budapest for a long weekend, planning to return to Vienna Monday and fly home Tuesday.

On Sunday afternoon, after spending some delightful hours in a large thermal bath, we were looking for a taxi in the park. I saw a taxi and turned around on a small incline—and the next thing I knew I was on the ground and heard a loud crack in my left ankle. My left foot was turned the wrong way and I knew something bad had happened. A kind soul called an ambulance and a woman who spoke English called our hotel. The ambulance picked me up, the EMT didn’t speak English and I was transported to the Budapest Trauma Center.

The entrance to the Trauma Center

In the admission room, some guys took me and grabbed my foot to set it. I screamed bloody murder, then somebody stuck me with a needle to take some blood and insert an IV in my hand. Nobody asked my permission, because nobody spoke English. It was like a pre-war movie.  I was in shock, my husband and the most wonderful concierge from the Ritz Carlton spent four hours doing all the paperwork.

X-rays from before the operation

My new hardware after the operation

While lying on a gurney for four hours, I made calls to Germany, the US, and Switzerland. I didn’t think I had an option because I had a complicated break that needed an operation immediately. I was rolled into a room with five female patients who lay undressed, covered only with a sheet. (The hospital does not provide gowns.) I was snarled at by the staff, and my husband was not allowed in the room. The surgeon came in saying that he would perform the surgery the same night or the next day. When I asked him how many of these operations he had done, he told me that I had insulted him by asking the question. The anesthesiologist was a kind and gentle woman who stayed with me throughout the operation late Sunday night. She looked so tired. After my operation in a very antiquated operating room, I was rolled to what I thought was a private room, because I spent  the night by myself with a kind nurse who gave me an extra pillow and asked if I wanted a blanket. The next morning, two other patients were rolled in, when I realized it was not a private room. My husband came as soon as possible, bringing water, juice and something to eat that the hotel had packed for me. In Hungary, the family of the patients provide the towels, cups and everything else you need. The staff is totally overworked and earns very little money. Most of them are unfriendly and don’t speak English or German. The surgeon told me that I was going to be released on Wednesday and I could fly home that day. He never checked my wound and disappeared and I never saw him again. But I am thankful for his skills, because my doctor here in Santa Cruz told me he did a pretty good job. Most important, he had written a sentence in my report that allowed my return flight home. 

There was no wifi in the hospital, I called all my friends in Europe who offered to pick me up and drive me to Switzerland, Austria or Germany, but I thought it was best for me to go straight home. My husband went back to the hotel and booked a new flight, canceling all the old reservations. The hotel staff helped him. I was on the phone all day, calling my doctors, friends and anybody else who I thought could help. I spent another horrible night at the hospital, and checked myself out the next morning after my bandages were changed and the drainage taken out.

I can tell you I was so happy when I reached the Ritz and the entire staff, including the manager, greeted me. The hotel extended our room for an additional three nights and provided me with a wheelchair. It was like I had entered heaven after being in hell. I will never forget the kindness and the generosity that the Ritz-Carlton in Budapest gave us. It was phenomenal. They provided us with food, drinks, comfort and taxis anytime my husband needed one.  One of their employees took us to the airport counter, where the airline personnel asked for a document from my doctor saying I was "fit to fly." And here is one of the reasons why I am writing this post, my dear readers. If you ever intend to board a plane with some obvious handicap, you need to have a doctor’s note saying you are FIT TO FLY.

Being pampered at the Ritz

The 2 flights lasting 14 hours were fine. My husband booked a business class seat that enabled me to raise my legs. The flight attendant brought ice for my ankle. Thank you, United Airlines. I was transported by a special wheelchair that fit the aisle of the airplane and a regular wheelchair for the airport. 

I arrived on Thursday and ended up going to the Stanford emergency room where I waited for five hours before somebody changed my bandages. It was a total waste of time and we were totally exhausted, especially my poor husband. The next morning, we saw a wonderful  doctor here in town who is now taking care of me. He said my operation was good, so now I am in a cast hopping around on one leg.

I haven’t cooked. Friends are bringing dinner and my husband is barbecuing. So sorry, there's no new recipe, but I am sharing some photos from Budapest on my Wanderlust blog.
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​Since Thanksgiving is right around the corner click here for recipes that are helpful to you for the upcoming feast.