This past Saturday, I enjoyed a lovely sunrise hike up Pic Saint-Loup with some of the parishioners from the Latin Mass group here in Montpellier. However, the hike back down was not so lovely.
I heard about the hike during the announcements at the previous Sunday’s Mass, and it was brought up again at the parish barbecue later that day. Since I don’t have a car here, I sent an e-mail to the priest to let him know I’d be coming but would need a ride with someone else, and by Tuesday it was all set.
We were expected to gather at the villa at 5:15 am. Since the first tram would have put me there late, I decided to walk, which meant I had to leave the apartment no later than 4:35 am. Unfortunately, I had a late meeting at work the previous day. It was too important to blow off, so I didn’t finish work until about 10:15 pm. I managed to get to sleep pretty quickly, but it still wasn’t much sleep.
It had been a long time since I was out and about so early in Montpellier for anything other than an Uber to the airport. There were a few sketchy characters around, but mostly I encountered revelers who still hadn’t made it home several hours after last call. Brexit notwithstanding, England apparently continues to export more than its fair share of drunk young women to the south of France.
When I arrived at the villa a few minutes early, the gates were still locked, so a small group of us started to gather. Even though all ages were invited, it quickly became apparent that this was mostly an event for the parish youth. If I had to guess, I’d say the median age of the group was about 21, and that would be with the two priests and a few of us older guys pulling it up.
I introduced myself to one of those guys who was closer to my age, Laurent, and we ended up chatting a bit. After everyone was gathered, I rode in his car to the trailhead.
When I think of a sunrise hike, it’s usually one where I start hiking at first twilight and watch the sun rise along the way. Apparently, the idea for this hike was to get started early enough so that we’d already be at the peak when the sun rose. It was really dark. Even with flashlights — well, I had a flashlight; the young folks used their phones — we almost got lost just leaving the parking lot.
Shortly after the hike began, the age groupings took hold, with the young men quickly forging ahead, disappearing up the steep, rocky trail into the darkness. This left the two priests, us older guys, and a few of the young women who weren’t trying to outdo the guys.
Listening to some of the conversations, it made a lot of sense why the priests would engage the youth in activities like this. One young woman discussed the difficulties of living a Christian life in a university setting, while one of the priests listened patiently, agreed with her to a certain extent, and then gently reminded her that most things that are good are not easy. I’m well past my university years, but it was a nice reminder for me, too.
I also had a brief conversation with the same priest. He remembered that my other home was where Charlie Kirk would be memorialized the next day. I didn’t really have much to add, since I hadn’t followed Charlie Kirk, but I talked a bit about how much my wife loved his work and what her expectations were for the public funeral.
It’s about an hour’s hike from the parking lot to the peak, and we were just starting to get our first light as we reached the summit. There was a lot of fog, so the sunrise was probably going to be less than spectacular.
The young men had already been there for 10-15 minutes, of course, but what I didn’t realize was that they had also been carrying coffee and breakfast for all of us. There’s an iron cross at the summit, and we all gathered under it. First, a quick prayer, the Angelus — I almost didn’t recognize it in French, in part because I’ve never fully memorized it in English — and then a meal blessing. Then the breads, meats, coffee, and tea came out.
As this was happening, a young couple arrived at the cross, clearly hoping for a moment of solitude. The look of disappointment when they saw two priests in cassocks and collars and a group of church youth — priceless.
We spent nearly an hour at the summit, enjoying the view, taking pictures, chatting, and so on, but eventually it was time to head back down. I hadn’t done a hike so steep in quite a while, and my legs were really feeling it. I intended to take my time getting back down. Laurent hung back with me while the rest of the group went on ahead.
The rocky trail is smooth and slippery in places, the stones worn down by centuries of people making the same trek. Both of us nearly lost our footing a couple of times, and I landed on my butt at one point, but I brushed it off and kept going.
Then, about a third of the way back down, I completely lost my balance. I fell forward, and instinctively I put my arm in front of my face before I hit the ground. When I landed, gravity took over and I slid downhill — I don’t remember how far. When I stopped sliding, I realized I was covered in blood gushing from the back of my forearm.
I didn’t look at the cut right away. I pulled the bandana out of my back pocket, and Laurent helped me wrap it around my arm to slow the bleeding. I stayed on the ground for a few minutes while he phoned ahead to let the priest know we were going to need extra time. The priest offered to call the rescue squad, but I was still able to walk, so that seemed the most sensible way to get back to the parking lot.
We continued on, much slower now, while I kept my eye on my makeshift bandage. At one point, I decided to remove the bandana for a moment to see whether the bleeding was mostly under control. That’s when I realized the extent of my injuries: a four-inch gash that had splayed open like a baked potato, as well as an assortment of other cuts and scrapes.
I must have been in some degree of shock because I was oddly calm as I told Laurent that I was going to need to go to the ER.
When we finally arrived back at the parking lot, I wasn’t surprised to see the priest there, but I was surprised to see everyone waiting patiently. I thought at least a couple of cars would have headed back to Montpellier. The priest had enough room in his car to take Laurent’s other passenger back to the villa, and Laurent committed to getting me to the hospital.
It was about a 25-minute drive from the parking lot to the nearest hospital, which was the university hospital. Laurent walked me to reception, made sure I was checked in, and offered to come back for me later if I couldn’t get home on my own. After that, I was in the care of the hospital staff.
I guess I was lucky to have arrived at the ER when I did. I went from reception to triage to waiting room to exam room in about 20 minutes. The triage nurse gave me the worst-case scenario because he wasn’t sure to what extent the bone was exposed. The initial exam by a physician raised similar concerns, so she called in a surgical specialist. It turned out it wasn’t quite that bad. The fascia was exposed — for me, that was a new context for the word fascia — but there was no risk to the bone or nervous system. The treatment was simple cleaning, stitching, and antibiotics.
As this was a university hospital, the cleaning and stitches were left to a student, so I spent more time with him than with anyone else. I knew there was no way I wasn’t going to have a scar for the rest of my life, but whether the scar would look badass or just plain ugly was now entirely in his hands. So I was very nice to him and let him take his time. At one point he asked if I wanted to lie down. I asked if it would make his job easier, and he said no, so I stayed sitting up.
He put eleven stitches in, cleaned up his equipment, and called in a supervisor to check his work. She congratulated him on what he had done so far but thought I needed one more stitch. Which was fine by me, since a nice, round dozen stitches makes for a much better story than eleven. So he got out a whole new set of sterile tools and materials, put in one more stitch, and then had to clean everything up again. He bandaged everything carefully, and I waited to be discharged.
When I received my discharge papers from the physician who initially saw me, I asked her how I should settle the bill. She looked confused. I reminded her I was a foreigner and not part of the French social security system. She thought for a moment and suggested I go back to reception and ask there.
So I went back to reception, which now had a line, but within a few minutes I worked my way to the front and spoke to the same woman who checked me in. She had taken my U.S. medical insurance card at check-in, and she said they’d try to bill them, which I suspect will result in nothing. If there’s a balance, she said, they’d send me a bill.
And thus ended my first time as a patient in a French hospital, roughly two hours after arriving.
I was fine to walk, so I took the tram back to my neighborhood. Conveniently, there was a stop directly in front of the hospital. Mind you, my clothes were still drenched in blood, although I’d had a chance to wash most of it off my hands. How do you suppose the other passengers responded to someone boarding the tram who looked like he’d hastily cleaned up after committing an ax murder?
If your guess was with complete indifference, you’d be right. Vive la France!
My next stop should have been a pharmacy, but of course my preferred one just down the street was closed for lunch until 3 pm. So I went home, heated up a can of ravioli, and talked to Kathryn for a bit before heading out again.
The prescription I had included both medications and materials, mostly the latter. I really should have looked over the list of materials more carefully. As it turned out, many of them would have made more sense if I had a nurse coming to the house to change the bandages. It’s great that that’s an option here, and I absolutely would have chosen it if the wound had been on my right arm instead of my left. Still, between the pain relievers, the antibiotics, the cleansing solution, the disinfectant, the bandages, and all the other stuff, I spent just over 54€, which is so far all I’ve paid for this injury.
Fast forward 72 hours, and I’m well on the road to recovery. Most of the pain I have at this point is not from the injury, but from aching muscles, the result of a steep climb that I probably took a little too quickly. The stitches itch from time to time, but I’ve been sleeping relatively well nonetheless. My knees also took a beating during the fall, of which I was acutely reminded while attempting to genuflect at Sunday Mass. I’ll be well enough to travel back to Phoenix this coming Sunday as planned. The stitches are supposed to be removed by a professional on or around day 14, so that’ll have to be done Stateside. Kathryn is setting up an appointment for me.
