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It was 1996 and I was on my very first International trip, traveling alone in London. It was my first day there and I had spent the evening walking around London W-2 (Paddington). I remember going into the Virgin Mega-store and buying a Rolling Stones CD. I'm not even that big of a fan of the Stones, but it seemed appropriate, being in London.
I went back to my hotel: The Linden House http://www.easy-london-hotels.com/linde
I went down the street to Dickens Tavern http://www.beerintheevening.com/pub
I finished up and decided to go back to my hotel room. As I was coming out the door and down the steps I looked to my right and saw a young guy with a bloody nose coming towards the pub (someone later said he was a "Paki". In London this is a derogatory term for a Pakistani). I didn't take it personally and made to walk past him. He tackled me on the steps to the pub and started cutting open my face with a razor blade. He made two major cuts: one horizontally across my left cheek, and one vertically down my right temple. (Even though the cheek is more visible, the temple was the more dangerous of the two.)
While he was carving me up I was reaching in my pocket for the tear gas cannister I always keep there. It's significant to note that taking a tear gas cannister on an International flight is quite illegal. It's also illegal to have in London, but there I was. I had actually taken the tear gas through security twice while in the Chicago Airport (I forgot something) but it went undetected both times. It's a good thing because I don't know what the guy would have done if I hadn't had this - but I'm getting ahead of myself.
After the guy cut me twice he stood up and I blasted him right in the face with the tear gas. His friend who was there yelled his name (I don't remember) and rushed toward him as he cradled his face. Aside: I have since vacillated between feeling guilty about and reveling in thinking about the possibility that he inhaled the tear gas when I sprayed him - thereby fucking up his breathing for quite some time - maybe permanently.
Someone, I don't remember who, rushed me back into the pub. I remember seeing the face of a girl in the pub react with horror and disgust at the sight of me. At the time I didn't know how bad it was, but I remember her reaction.
They took me downstairs to the bathroom, a surprisingly large room with an almost clinical feel - lots of white tile. Whoever it was that dragged me down there left and the bartender came down and said "hold it, hold it!" or something like that. I had seen the blood and I thought I had a bloody nose - probably because of seeing the guy with the bloody nose coming down the street. I grabbed my nose and made to hold the nostrils closed, like you would a bloody nose. The bartender reacted with what seemed like disgust at my ignorance (I was in shock) and grabbed my be the wrist and forcibly put my hand flat, sideways along my cheek. He then left to call an ambulance.
I was left alone there in the bathroom for a very long time. It was during this time that I looked in the mirror and saw the blood welling between my fingers. I had never seen blood welling before, even though you read about it all the time, but this blood was definitely welling. Now I know what that means. Anyway, I saw the blood welling and I knew then that things were quite a bit more serious that I had thought.
Eventually the bartender came back down and guided me back though the pub to the front steps (where my assault had occurred only minutes before). There was an ambulance there but they weren't ready for me just yet, so they sat me on the steps. Just then some guy came and sat down beside me and said this in a very calm voice: "I saw what happened, and you did the right thing. Would you like me to take the gas from you?" Apparently he knew what I did not - that tear gas is illegal to have in London. I said yes and told him it was in my coat pocket. After a brief misunderstanding as to which pocket I meant he reached into my pocket and took the tear gas cannister. That's the last I saw of him and of the cannister.
A lot of what happened next is a blur. They took me to a nice, shiny, clean hospital where they put me in an area that had triage rooms separated by curtains. The curtains were dark green, as were the scrubs on the medical personnel. In the "room" next to me was a family of Indians (Bhagwan, not Wig-wam) who didn't understand English very well. There was a Medical Technician apparently filling out a questionnaire about the daughter in the family. She was doing fine until she got to the part where it asked if the girl had had a bowel movement in the last 24 hours. The family just *could* *not* understand what she was asking about and I lay there listening to the Tech go through the entire lexicon of synonyms for pooping, gradually getting baser and baser in her terminology, and obviously more and more embarrassed at the terms she was forced to say. I think at one point she actually stood up and acted out the process, but they just couldn't get it. I'll always wonder if she ever succeeded in her task because I was taken away before the conclusion. I can still hear her, in her very proper, upper-class English dialect asking "Has she pooed? Did she poo? Do you know if she, um, er pooed. . .?"
So, I was whisked off to Triage, where a very attractive nurse and an even more attractive Doctor went to work on my face, stopping the bleeding and stitching me up, in a very preliminary fashion. I remember what it felt like to have them tugging on my face with the silk. They had some difficulty because the cut on my cheek had gone to the bone and had actually sliced off a small piece. As I was laying there on my back looking up at the very attractive nurse (dark hair) and the even more attractive Doctor (red head) I remember saying, "They told me I'd meet girls in London, but I didn't think it would be like this!" The Doctor kept a very stoic expression, but the nurse almost broke. I heard her stifle a laugh. Yep, I still got it.
Once they got me sewn up a fellow came in and started asking me questions. I only remember two: "Have you ever been tested for AIDS?" and "Do you have insurance?" I answered no to the latter and yes to the former - wrong answers on both. When I told them that, yes, I had been tested for HIV, they asked me why. I explained to them that I thought it was a good idea and that I thought everyone should be tested. This last answer was met with what I can only describe as incredulity. Apparently they were of the opinion that the only people who would ever think of being tested were people in high-risk groups. I'm not sure whether they assumed I was a drug user, Haitian, or a homosexual, but they didn't pursue any further.
After this exchange, and, I'm convinced, in response to me not having insurance, I was once again placed in an ambulance and carted to University Hospital part of National Health. (A Google search for "University Hospital" London yields two hits: Homerton and Whips Cross. I have no idea which one I was taken to. All I know is that the difference between elective health care and National Health in London is quite dramatic. U-H was quite a bit older, and a little dirtier than the first place I was taken. The equipment and facilities were obviously aging, and not well. BUT the staff was very friendly and quite conscientious. They were always ready with a kind word and seemed genuinely interested in my well-being. I remember one attendant in particular, who had asked me about my injuries and when I told her the story she actually started crying.
I lay there in the ward for I don't know how long. The hardest part was after I'd been put in the bed and left for the night. I was bandaged up like the invisible man. One eye was covered and with the other one I was staring at the ceiling, wondering what I looked like under the gauze. This was absolutely the most alone I've felt in my entire life. I was on a different continent from every single person I knew and loved, I had no idea what my face looked like, or if I could still see out of my left eye, and no one - not one soul, outside of the nurses in my ward, had any idea where I was or what had happened to me.
This was the lowest point I've ever gotten to in my life. Honestly, I think I came close to dying that night. If I had given up and succumbed to the depths of depression, I seriously doubt I would have pulled out. But I didn't succumb. I now know that, having made it through all of that, there is nothing in this life so bad that I can't get through it.
I made it through that night and in the morning I set upon a task almost as difficult: I called my family to tell them what had happened. The only phone in the ward was a pay phone and all I had on me was the change I had in my pocket from the night before. I fed a bunch of coins into the machine and called my Mother. When she picked up I didn't tell her anything, but I told her to call me back at the number I gave her. She somewhat jokingly asked, "Did something happen?" and I replied, "Just call me back." This, of course, was the worst thing I could have said under the circumstances, but I didn't have much choice under the circumstances.
When the phone rang and I picked up it was my Father, not my Mother on the phone. Mom was weeping in the background. I told them what had happened and tried to assure them that I was going to be okay, even though I wasn't sure of this myself (remember: I still hadn't seen my own face yet.)
Trying to make a too-long story short here: I spent that day and part of the next in the hospital, and then a plastic surgeon, who was German, sewed me up. There were several false starts getting into the operating theater, but we eventually made it. He did a good job, too. The scar is visible, but not horrendous. most people say they don't even notice it.
I cut short my trip in England and went to Ireland. I was walking around for the next two weeks looking like Shelly's monster. It was quite interesting experiencing the difference between the way the English treated me and the way the Irish did.
. . .but that's for another post.
