Artic Madness

Arctic Madness

by Jack Nanuq

The cold bit into my hand like a steel trap. One moment everything was fine and then BANG! Pain! Would I get to keep my fingers? Did I want to? The pain was excruciating. How could I have been so stupid?

The day was beautiful, for February that is. And only 100 miles south of the Arctic Circle; brilliantly bright. It’s incredible how a sun, just off the horizon, can throw so much light. Not enough to warm the air, but enough to make me forget. Forget how hazardous things can be and how vigilant one must remain; always.

A few minutes ago, the gas mix was sitting in a reserve can and the chainsaw tank was empty. Now the tank on the saw was full but my hand was on fire, no not on fire in the literal sense. My hand, the one that had held the funnel was drenched in gasoline. The gas on my fingers was drawing heat from the hand at an incredible rate. How could a liquid at minus 30 still be a liquid? The gasoline, more than 60 degrees below the point where tap water would freeze, was drawing heat from my hand. The pain was simultaneously searing and crushing.

The pain in my hand was more than I could bear. I was now on my knees, tears streaming, praying. But praying for what; relief of course, relief in any form. Had a surgeon walked out of the woods I would have begged him,the doctor to cut my fingers off. Anything, please anything; just make the pain stop.

An inner voice, that part of oneself that wants to survive, screamed at me to get up. Get up and move. "Move Damnit! Get too the truck, get to the truck Damnit!"

Twenty minutes later I made it too Fairbanks Memorial Hospital. The drive had been a bitch. My hand now throbbed like it was wrapped in barbwire. Maybe a stick shift was a bad idea; the next truck was going to have an automatic transmission. Every time I grabbed the gearshift it brought me to new levels of agony.

I walked into the Emergency Room and was greeted by hive of activity and a cacophony of inconsolable wailing. I was waved to reception area as children cried and screamed for their mothers.

“School bus accident,” the receptionist said as she waved a hand at the medical staff, performing choreographed pandemonium.

“How can I help you?”

“I think I got frostbite or something like that.” I then told my story.

She asked for my name and DOB. “Do you still have Northern Lights Insurance?” she asked as she examined the computer screen.

“Yes” I said as stared at the other side of the Admitting. You’d think that a hospital on the edge of civilization would be primitive, but not here. Millions in oil revenue and federal grants had built a state-of-the art facility; and the staff was topnotch.

“Please sign this,” the receptionist said as she handed me an iPad and stylist; state-of-the art, no wasted paper here.

“You can have a seat in the waiting area; I’m afraid it will be a while.” She again waved a hand at the crowd.

I walked into the room she pointed at and found a man in a wheelchair. The occupant was holding a towel to his right knee trying to make a cup of coffee with his left hand. Unfortunately, his position in the chair did not allow him to reach the Keurig machine.

“Here let me get that,” I said.

“Oh, thanks dude, I need to sober up...before the cops get here”.

“What?”

“You know the cops, the troopers, the fuzz…”

“Yeah, I heard you…”

“I’m wasted dude and need coffee before they get here.”

The coffee wasn't going to cover the stink of a gin mill, but I figured I'd help him anyway. “You got a preference,” I asked as I half juggled four K-cups.

“Sumpin strong,” he said as he pushed himself away from the counter. “By the way, name’s Smokey.”

“What happened?” I asked as I pushed the top over a Morning Roast.

“I shot myself, and the cops are coming. I caught a break with that accident; they’re all buzzy right now.”

“You mean busy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said; wanna see?” Smokey asked as he lifted the towel.

“No,” I lied. Sure, I wanted to see, who doesn’t? I couldn’t help myself as I turned toward the wounded man.

I couldn’t help but stare. How best to describe this wound? You couldn’t describe it like hamburger. First, that was too cliché and secondly it didn’t look anything like hamburger. The kneecap was gone. That might look like hamburger... if you could ever find it.

I took in the rounded contours of the underlying joint and the frayed and blanched ends of connective tissues.

“Wud do ya think?” Smokey asked with a weird sense of pride.

“Um, um….no offense…but…”

“Go on, it’s cool. You can say it, tell me what you think.”

“It kinda reminds me… of… of my grandma’s pig knuckle soup. Sorry, but the knee…it resembles a bowl of Polish comfort food.”

“Holy shit, you’re right,” he said, as he stared at the open wound.

I was amazed there was so little blood and immediately understood why...why Smokey wasn’t a priority for the Emergency Room staff.

The ER staff was busy tending to the other victims. Those people were bleeding, bleeding lots. The door to the I waiting room was still open and I turned toward the chaos. Staff in surgical scrubs moved about in a frenetic but controlled manner. Medical equipment buzzed and clicked like mechanical crickets.

“You can put that back,” and I pointed to the towel, as the last of the brown liquid sputtered from the coffee maker.

As I reached for the cup it occurred to me my pain was diminishing. Not much, but it was different now. Earlier it had been all consuming, now it was just there. Now I had something to take my mind off the pain. That being; someone else’s suffering.

With my left hand and teeth, I ripped open half a dozen sugar packets. Using my weak hand, I stirred the concoction and set it on the counter. I then dropped another pod into the coffeemaker and slid a cup under the spout; I needed some java for myself.

“Tell me that again”, I said as I walked the first cup toward Smokey. “How’d you shoot yourself?”

“Actually…truth to tell, I didn’t,” he whispered confidentially. “My buddy did, but don’t tell anyone; I don’t want him to get jacked up. It wasn’t his fault.”

“So… what happened?”

It wasn’t my habit of talking to drunks, but I needed to hear this, if for no other reason than to pass the time.

“Well, it started this morning. I was at my old lady's house and lit up a fatty. She got all pissy…said I shouldn’t smoke dope around her kids. We got into a fight, and I was out of there. I don’t need that kind of grief. I already got enough problems, PTSD and that crap, I take Xanax for it. So… so, I drive to my buddy’s house.”

“He mixes up some screwdrivers. Not exactly screwdrivers, he didn’t have any orange juice. So, we mixed tangerine Jello with vodka. That was pretty good, ever have that before?”

“No,” I said, with certainty.

“Anyway, then we sees this moose. My freezer’s almost empty and we decide we’re gonna try for it. By the time buddy gets his gun the moose is in the woods.”

“He says ‘we’ll head it off at the pass’, you know like they say in those old Westerns. That’s a pretty good line, I think as we run for my truck.”

“We jump in the Chevy and we’re bouncing down the road and blam. Next thing I know I’m missing a knee”.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Kinda, it’d probably should hurt more, but I took some Percocet.”

“So, what he shoot you with?”

“A Thirty-O-Six. A Ruger…He bought it new last year.”

“Damn,” I couldn’t help myself. I made a mental note, alcohol and gunpowder really don’t mix. I took a moment to picture the scene. Smokey in the driver’s seat and his buddy to his right. The rifle would have been four feet in length; the muzzle less than 12 inches from the knee. A 30’06 and at point blank range. As gunshot wounds go this one was traumatic but survivable. The bullet would have sliced into the kneecap like a scalpel travelling 1,700 miles an hour; flying from right to left. A nanosecond behind the bullet were the expanding gases. The superheated air, hot as rocket exhaust, probably caused more damage than the bullet but ironically also saved Smokey’s life. The hot gasses cauterized the wound, explaining the lack of blood.

I flexed my right hand and grimaced with the pain, but at least I had mobility.

“Code Blue, Code Blue, Dr Watts to ICU”, I heard a loudspeaker announce.

I made a fist and slowly uncoiled my fingers. The fingers were stiff but worked as designed. Maybe I didn’t need any help; or at least not the kind of help that should go to someone else.

Still indecisive I asked, “So how’d you get here?”

“My buddy drove; he got me here, helped me into this chair and then took off. I don’t blame him; we’re cool.”

Wow, what a friend; who does that? With friends like that, who needs… what …body armor, I thought.

Just then an Alaska State Trooper walked into the room; a cackling radio announced his presence.

Decision made, time to go. I told the receptionist I would warm my hand at home and if I had any problems later, I’d see my own doctor.

“Thank you,” she said, “I mean, you take care.”

“I will,” I said as the doors hissed open and the cold air hit my face.