Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Wounded Soldier

A few weeks into my Sanda (kickboxing) training, my Sifu (teacher/master) had us sparring.  Sparring, in my experience, has an uncertain level of danger and intensity.  From the outset, the exercise might be called “light sparring,” but the intentions of the combatants and the natural vigor of the activity can escalate things quickly.  In Brazilian jiu-jitsu or wrestling, each grappler can push the pace as hard as they want to, since there are no punches or kicks there’s no normal risk of injury.  And as soon as one grappler secures a submission- which would lead to injury or unconsciousness if the opponent didn’t have a chance to yield- then the action stops and the action is reset.  But the end goal in finishing an opponent in any kind of striking is a knockout, either landing a blow that makes him blackout momentarily, or double over, unable to stand up and fight.  So to simulate this, the chance of injury is obviously real, and even with safety equipment and controlled technique the level of contact is still imprecise.  Besides that, sometimes both sparring partners decide they want to let fly and hurt the other guy.  Maybe at first they just wanted to show they were better, had the edge, but after they got punched too hard in the nose they need to let their partner know who’s boss.  Trainers have different opinions about the intensity level in sparring.  I’ve heard that sparring is learning- which it is- and the point isn’t to take someone’s head off but to practice technique in a live-speed environment, and I’ve also heard that hard sparring is necessary to prepare for a real fight’s contact, speed, and pace.  I think I’m of the opinion that a fighter should be built up in steps.  The only reason I’m able to keep up with the level of sparring partners I am today is because I had the opportunity to practice and refine my technique, after first analyzing its mechanics and logic, in increasingly lesser-controlled settings.  But that’s all just background, so back to the main thread.

I was partnered up with my Sifu’s nephew, a seventeen-year-old who’s far above the rest of the students and a couple levels ahead of me.  I didn’t know how they did things at Wei Sifu’s gym, or in China, but I had a decent level of experience sparring so I took to it and went back and forth with Sifu’s nephew for a few minutes.  I tried settling into my game, my usual habits, and seeing how well those would succeed, but I wasn’t able to catch my rhythm and establish myself because he was getting the better of me.  It was a rough start, and I became a little frustrated after trying to sidestep and falling on my back when he came forward with a leg kick that caught me sideways.  After I got up, I wasn’t angry, wasn’t vengeful, but I was definitely more loose.  I dropped the tension I was holding by trying to establish myself and dazzle with perfect technique.  So, not long sparring in my newly relaxed state, I let go with a left-leg head kick.  It was quick and effortless, without concentrating on it beforehand, and unexpectedly, and as it turned out, unfortunately, it found its mark.

His pupils rattled into place as everyone watching either gasped or grew silent.  We both stopped, and a trickle of blood came down over his lip.  He went into the bathroom to check and clean out his mouth.  Some of the older students, around my age, who knew English were excited and said, “Wow!  You are strong!”  I felt terrible.  I was trying to express my apology, afraid that he’d come back twice as hard at me, but Wei Sifu said it was nothing, not to worry.  There would be no grudges, it was understood as part of training.  Sheepishly, I went aside and checked my own wound.  I had a small gash on my foot, at the head of my second toe.  It had been cut open, I don’t know whether by the force of the impact or by his teeth.  I had felt terrible about hitting my training partner so hard, but I was soon to feel even worse.

My Chinese “aunt” and “uncle” told me not to wash my cut.  I didn’t understand at first and I was insisting, but then they communicated that the water was not clean.  That’s right, I agreed, the tap water here isn’t the same as in America.  So, instead, my uncle swabbed my foot with alcohol-soaked cotton swabs.  I requested a band-aid, but either they thought that was unwise, unavailable, or they didn’t understand.  The next day the wound had hardened over and my sock had a large rusty blotch.  Also, it was surprisingly hard to walk and painful to move my toes.  I felt like a baby not training the next day, but my aunt made the call and I really couldn’t have even if I had tried.  Besides, there was a three-day trip to Shanghai beginning the next morning.  Yes, it was the week of the National Day holiday, the day when China marks its modern founding in 1911 and the week when most people have time off from work or school.  We had planned a trip to Shanghai, to see the city and visit Aunt Fang and Uncle Jiang’s son (their surnames are different because the women in China keep their father’s name even after they marry).  The morning of our trip, Aunt Fang had to pull out to go meet someone, so it was just Uncle Jiang and I headed off to meet his son, his sister, and his niece in Shanghai.  I hobbled along as best as I could, trying not to wince and thankful when I could rest and elevate my foot.  Throughout the trip, we swabbed my increasingly sore, red and yellow wound, and applied generous amounts of ointment to it.  I had a gauze bandage held on by tape (given to me by Aunt Fang’s sister- a nurse- when we made a brief visit into what I thought was the scariest hospital I’d ever been in; it wouldn’t be much longer until I experienced the scariest) and that was completely soaked and had mostly stiffened.  (I’m not trying to be unpleasant, so to make the point cleanly: my foot was swelling, sore to the touch, and the wound was festering.  I was sucking air in through my clenched teeth as I slipped on my shoe and pulled it off; I couldn’t even bear to tie the laces.)  Well, I spent most of the vacation in the hotel room, which wasn’t all bad in itself, but I felt disappointed that I wasn’t able to tour the city more.  I was hoping that Uncle Jiang would allow us to go out and see the city- despite my foot I thought I could endure it- but he insisted I rest and so either he or the whole group kept me company most of the time.  We did go out for one evening to see the river (gorgeous night scene with lights all up and down the river) and a shopping area, and we spent most of one day touring the city center and taking pictures of the famous skyscrapers (check my Facebook page if you’re interested in those).

When we came back to Bengbu, where Uncle Jiang and Aunt Fang live, we went out for dinner with some old colleagues of Uncle Jiang’s from when he used to work with Aunt Fang at Bengbu Medical College.  They all had a great time catching up as I enjoyed the lively atmosphere, removed from the table by some distance due to culture and language.  Afterwards, instead of going back home, Aunt Fang had Uncle Jiang drop her, their doctor friend, and me, off at the hospital affiliated with the college.  My foot was still bad, no, it was worse, and after having several nurses and doctors look at it and say it was fine- nothing broken that is- she wanted to have her close friend look at it and fix the problem.  Note: before I came to China, I was concerned about the health care here.  What were the hospitals like?  Will I be able to access what I need?  Could I afford it?  I found out that if you know someone, you just walk right in.  I’ve been to a few hospitals for more than five visits, and I’ve never filled out any paper work, sat and waited, or paid any money for the services (this includes quick checks, new bandages applied, and x-rays).  With Aunt Fang, I walk past the crowded lobby full of people with morbidly miserable faces, up the stairs, or in the case of the second hospital up the overly-crowded elevator, past the patients lying on beds in the hallways with their family members massing around, and right up to the doctor in his office.  So, in the doctors’ office behind the nurses’ desk, Aunt Fang pulled up a chair for me to sit down and wait until the physician she knew could come and see me.  As Aunt Fang and her friend (also a doctor, I think) talked, other doctors and nurses shuffled by, returning supplies and gathering medicine to take on their rounds.

By this time I was already scared, praying and trying to focus past the panic.  You see, my foot was in bad pain at that point, the surroundings were crowded, busy, dingy, and poor.  All the meager surroundings you’d picture in a third-world hospital: large, cold rooms populated by scant wooden furniture that was worn and usually in need of paint or repair.  Inside the wooden cabinets, there would be a few supplies, but nothing like at an American clinic, a collection of glass bottles, thin cardboard boxes with gauze and bandages inside, and simple instruments you’d be just as likely to find in your neighbor’s medicine cabinet.  All of this is dimly lit by fluorescent bulbs, so the atmosphere is getting to me, but I hate hospitals to begin with.  If you know me well you know I hate needles and I can’t even have a conversation about blood without getting faint.  Going into a hospital, my mind races and I have to fight my rationalizations that the worst will happen and I’m going to have to have my foot amputated.  I know, it’s dramatic, but sitting in that terrifying hospital, I almost would have signed a confession of guilt for a made-up crime if meant they’d release me.

When Aunt Fang’s physician friend came in, he took out some cotton swabs, a bowl, and some very large metal tweezers, just like the doctors who’d looked at my foot before.  But this time, Aunt Fang and her friend looked at me sympathetically, clutched my shoulder and gripped my hand, and covered my eyes.  The doctor went to work, and I did my best to hold on.  As he plucked and tore out the infected tissue, the pain came in intense shots.  I was repeating the same psalm in my head, or when the pain was too much that it distracted me, I switched and tried focusing on something else, like the sensation of another body part, to try and ignore the pain in my foot.  It was bad enough that I started to feel flush and get hot; I knew what was coming.  My posture slowly collapsed in the chair as I vainly struggled to take in fresh air.  I was going out, and I knew if it continued for a moment longer I would either faint in my chair or fall on the floor.  Blindly, I waved the doctor off with my hand, motioning for him to stop.  He was already done though, and so as he stepped away Aunt Fang and her friend tried pulling me up by my arms and reviving me.  It just wasn’t going to happen, and I ducked my head between my knees to try and allow blood back into my brain.  After a couple minutes watching me bent over, Aunt Fang and her friend helped me up and carried me with my arms, one over each of their shoulders.  I protested, or at least tried, barely able to mouth words and so drained that I couldn’t open my eyes or find the strength to move.  I didn’t know where they were taking me; I thought they meant to take me outside when I was in no condition to attempt to walk home, even if it was only three blocks away.  Of course, they had my best wishes in mind, and they took me around the corner, into an empty exam room to lie down on the bed.  Slowly, as Aunt Fang held my hand and wiped the sweat off my forehead, my breathing began to return to normal.  It was quite a while, I’m not sure exactly how long since in my trance the time didn’t register to me as it normally would, before I was able to sit up.  And when I did, they all watched intently, bracing themselves with the worry that I might topple over.  But I managed to make it out and down the elevator, aided of course by her and her friend.

We weren’t quite done; we scheduled a stop by the radiology department and found two doctors standing in the hallway, on smoke break, to take some x-rays.  Yes, smoking in the hospital hallway, and yes, holding the cigarette in his off hand while he adjusted the camera with his right.  Even though I’d just been through trauma, I had a small smile.  A radiologist working with a lit cigarette- that’s just too funny an experience, too out-of-the-American-world not to enjoy.  Nothing was broken or fractured, so with that I hobbled home.

The next day we went back, my aunt and I, and had another doctor (this one spoke decent English) examine my foot.  He took out the tweezers, and the bowl, but this time he only pulled off the gauze, cleaned the wound, and replaced the bandage.  It took hardly more than a minute, and when I walked out all the nurses were smiling and joking with my aunt.  I guess, even compared to the craziness they’re used to, I made quite a scene the day before.

As we left, Aunt Fang tried translating a Chinese expression or some apt words she thought of to describe the situation.  I helped her sound it out and she meant to say “wounded.”  She called me a “wounded soldier.”  I told her, as best as I could in simple English, that when I was about seven, in a similar situation, that time walking home from the hospital upset because I had to go through the nightmare of getting a shot, my mother told me I was her “brave little soldier,” but I told her, “No, I’m not!  I’m a sad little boy!”  And I pouted the rest of the way home.  I don’t know how my young mind came up with that so quickly.  But now, after the nearly three-week layoff and several more doctor’s visits, once I returned to Sanda training, whenever I come back bruised or sore, Aunt Fang always tells me, “You are wounded soldier.”