Montreal - October 16, 2007

Fortunately, the blood wasn't mine.

Isn't that a great way to start an e-mail?

Jose is one of the students in my class. He's the co-host of a television program in the Dominican Republic, as well as one of the pirates in a touring production of Peter Pan, and yesterday afternoon, not looking where he was going, he got hit by a bike as he was crossing the street. The bicyclist asked if he was okay; he assured the man that he was and hobbled inside a nearby café, where he very nearly fainted from the pain. He told us, again, that everything was fine, and not to worry, but the fact that he couldn't stand up without feeling woozy, that he couldn't move his arm properly, and that sweat was running down his face were slight clues to the contrary. His shoulder was dislocated.

The teacher and the rest of the class decided to continue the day's excursion to the Basilica, while I accompanied Jose to the hospital via taxi. He was rapidly admitted into the emergency room to have his injury treated. I, meanwhile, dealt with the hospital paperwork, getting him registered and figuring out the finer points of the insurance system with the accounting office. When I got back to Jose, I discovered him surrounded by a small army of doctors, at least one of whom seemed to be some kind of intern, who was there to see how shoulder relocation was done. Jose asked if I could take a picture of him; the doctors explained that I couldn't, and that it was illegal. This procedure itself was surprisingly non-excruciating for him, due to the large quantity of sleeping drugs they had given him. They spent several minutes testing his degree of consciousness:

"Can you tell me your phone number?"
"514 555 1234."
"Now backwards."
"Huh?"
"Your phone number in reverse?"
"… 4321… 555… 415…"
"And again?"
"4321… 555…415…"
"Where are you from?" "What do you do for a living?" "What's your phone number?" "What's today's date?" "In reverse?" "And again?" "And again?" He continued to answer the questions.

The doctors gave him another shot.

"Now your phone number?"
"cinq… un… four… cinq……."

They prepared to pull his arm back into place. The doctor began slowly to increase the pressure.

Jose: "Can… you… take… a… pho…to?"



And it was over. A half an hour later, Jose was both totally lucid and totally lacking in long-term memory.

"My arm's back in place? You're sure?" he asked for the dozenth time.
"Yes, I'm sure." The doctor laughed again.
"But I didn't feel anything…" He asked the doctor if he would remember any of this later.
"Oh, yes," the doctor lied, "You won't remember when we pulled the arm back into place, or any of the time that you were asleep, of course, but yes, you'll remember all of this now that you're awake."

Jose was amazed to learn that the doctor was from Chile ("But why have you been speaking to me in English and French instead of Spanish, all this time?!") and he had a long conversation with him in Spanish, and thanked all the other doctors again. He was continually amazed at how he had forgotten everything that had happened when he having his arm relocated. "You're sure my arm's back in place?" He went to get a second x-ray to verify that everything was okay, and I was finally able to take a photo for him, before he was taken into another room to await the doctor – where I discovered that he had forgotten not only everything that happened in the operating room ("You're sure the arm's back in place?" "The doctor's from Chile? But why has he been speaking to me in English and French instead of Spanish, all this time?!"), but also the entire experience of getting X-rays, and the photos I'd taken of him only minutes before. The next day, I found out that he'd also forgotten how he got back home.

Mental note: never tell anything important to someone who's been drugged…

Other than an afternoon spent in a Montreal hospital, life here has been pretty sedate (no pun intended). I've been to the Montreal history, natural history, Holocaust, space, art, religious art, and modern art museums, as well as several parks, two church services, a synagogue, a guided hike, an English-language scientific symposium on the origins of life on Earth, a job fair, a play ('L'Iliade'), and a Burma solidarity rally. The biggest news here, of course, was the French-language release of "High School Musical 2," which all the members of the pre-teen female demographic in my house were eagerly awaiting since before my arrival, and watched twice (along with the original "High School Musical" once) over the course of twelve hours. Despite the songs being in English, both girls have them memorized in full. Between "Hanna Montana," "Zack and Cody," and a host of other programs, I've had ample opportunity to practice my French in the weekday afternoons.

Milk comes in bags here. That's weird.

I hope you're all doing well,
Nathan