The real adventure was just beginning. As they wheeled me into the hospital, they wouldn’t let Dannella come with me. One of the nurses ran back to get my phone from her so I could stay in touch.

Looking up at the ceiling as they wheeled me in, I noticed black mold all over the ceiling tiles. “What kind of hospital am I going into?” I wondered. They took me to a back room and started running tests—blood tests, a tetanus test—while speaking French the whole time. They did X-rays with a mobile arm from the ceiling, moving it into position, stepping outside, closing the door, taking a picture, then coming back in.

People were putting pads on me, asking questions, and taking off my clothes. When they asked if they could cut my clothes, I said, “That’s fine. Cut my clothes. I don’t care.” They cut off my rash guard, tank top, bra, shorts, and underwear. There I was, lying naked on a table, when they said, “Oh, let’s get you a towel or something to cover you up.” I realized in that moment that I was going to have to give up any hope of modesty in the next little while to get through this whole ordeal. 

After the X-rays, they told me they were calling the surgeon, who was finishing another surgery, and would take me into surgery as quickly as possible. They wheeled me into what seemed like a large room—almost like a cafeteria or gymnasium. There was a fabric screen divider with another patient on the other side, facing toward me. The screen might as well not have been there; we could see each other clearly.

The anesthesiologist arrived, and they asked if I could move to the operating table. “No, I can’t,” I said. “You just told me I have broken things!” Eight to ten people, all speaking French, surrounded me, trying to figure out how to move me. They all grabbed parts of me and tried to pick me up, but got me only halfway there. Every time they touched my legs or feet, I experienced excruciating pain. I was screaming and crying—it was insane. It seemed like forever, though it was probably only two or three minutes.

Once they got me on the table, I was shaking from pain. Then the surgeon came in—Dr. Matardo, very French, clearly just back from a smoke break. In broken English, he said, “I surgeon. You? Class four fracture. Not good. Normal, amputation, or infection. I try none of these. I do my best.”

That was the first time I heard what my injury was and understood its severity. I was about to go under anesthesia, and I thought, “I can either choose to go straight into pure panic mode, or I can just trust that this is going to be right.” I knew panic wouldn’t help, so I chose trust.

The anesthesiologist said, “We’re going to put you to sleep fast,” to which I responded “YES.” They put the oxygen mask on so tight I could barely breathe out. I took two deep breaths, and on the third, everything went black.