Just Another Day in the Life of a Clumsy Runner

I hadn’t run in three days after a weekend bout of stomach issues. I had decided to go for a short jog down my favorite path just to get my blood moving. When I started running, I felt my sluggish legs working underneath me. Instead of trying to push through it, I just allowed myself to slowly jog down the path, trying to re-center my mind, forget my daily frustrations, and enjoy the lush, jungle setting of my own “gym.”

Somewhere in the slogging, I tripped over something and smacked into the ground, sliding forward on the loose gravel and grass. My hand, which was inches from my face when I fell, caught a lot of my weight, and I feared that it would be gushing blood when I flipped it over to look at my palm. Quickly I did just that and was surprised to find only a few faint scratches on it.

I rolled my body over, stood up, and looked at my knees. “FU*!,” was my only reaction.

I repeated this over and over again as I assessed the damage. My right knee was already dripping blood from a small cut on the bottom of my knee. My left knee however was sporting a gaping gash—a deep purple chunk of skin that looked like it had been perfectly sliced out of my lower knee using two knives. I could hardly look at it because I didn’t want to see that far under my superficial skin and the darkness below this chunk of my flesh was terrifying and pushing my blood out in deep red rivulets down my shin. About two inches below my knee was a golf ball sized knot that had so immediately sprung up, I was in shock that my body could react so quickly.

I knew then and there that I would need stitches. I cursed myself for not having a phone on me, of course, I don’t know who I would’ve even called as I was one mile out on an open path heading toward the bush. I took a few deep breaths, cursing under my breath the whole time, and started to walk back the way I’d come. I tried jogging a few times, but felt such intense throbbing in my knee that I was afraid the motion would pump even more of my blood out through the wound.

As I approached villages again, people walking toward me on the path stared in horror and would start yelling to their neighbors in Bassa. I sped past, walking as quickly as possible. When I reached my home, thankfully on the edge of the village, I tried to sneak behind my neighbors kitchen and into my house with no one seeing me as the blood had caused me to have two giant red stains down my shins and pooling in the tongues of my running shoes.

This did not happen. My neighbors saw me and screamed. They asked if I’d been in a motorbike accident. ‘Nope, I thought… I’m just clutsy enough to trip while jogging on a path.’ Everyone in the village began running toward my house as I quickly unlocked it, dipped inside to grab my phone, and came back out to my porch to take a photo of my knees and send it to our emergency medical officer asking her to call me back immediately. I slumped down onto the cold tile on my porch as the crowd of everyone in my village surrounded the railings, peering in and making me feel like I was a zoo animal. They all squawked and yelled about the blood and pointed at the gash. I tried to bite back tears as everyone made a fuss about me.

The photo I sent to Peace Corps

When I was able to get ahold of our medical officer, I explained to her what had happened as calmly as possible and without my voice cracking into tears. She told me that I would definitely need stitches (just as I’d known), and that I would have to get them at my local health clinic because there was no way I could get to Monrovia in time. This was when the floodgates opened, and I began sobbing into the phone about how scared I was to do this as she reassured me.

I limped outside to call for my counterpart but was surprised to run into a friend at my door.  Our Community Engagement Officer, Stanley, who is another one of my counterparts who I completely trust and adore. He had his motorbike sitting in my front yard, ready and waiting, as the news of my fall had already traveled to him.

At this point, I was ugly crying with no fucks given. I slid on his helmet, painfully climbed onto the bike behind him, my body heaving with massive sobs and shaking from adrenaline, and we sped down to the clinic about a quarter of a mile down the road.

When I got there, I sat down in a wooden chair with another chair placed under my feet so that they were both straight out in front of me. My three counterparts (the other two were waiting at the clinic) rushed around getting all the supplies needed as Stanley wiped up the bloodstains down my shins and started to use saline solution to clean out my cuts.

I was on the phone with our Peace Corps Medical Officer who was asking me to confirm that they had the necessary drugs and materials to get me cleaned up while I was anxiously crying into the phone. I confirmed that they had Lytocane (a numbing liquid) in order to do the stitches as tears dropped out of my eyes. 

They worked quickly, jabbing my nasty knee with three doses of numbing stuff in different places then began stitching it up.

I spied my little brother outside at the steps and called him in and made him hold my hand as I yelped in pain and cried at the thought of what was happening to my knee. I must admit that I am a complete baby when it comes to needles, blood, and gaping wounds that reveal the inside of thick, healthy flesh.

Stanley put in five rudimentary stitches to pull the flap on my knee closed. This was his first time doing stitches because, ya know, why not. When he finished, he cleaned all the cuts once more and put a combination of gauze, bandaids, and wrap on them. Then Stanley drove me back to my house on his motorbike, me with my left leg sticking straight out and holding onto him to balance myself, as we veered around the potholes on the dark, dirt road.

When I arrived back home, my ma and her sisters and kids skirted around me like little helper fairies, making sure I was comfortable and had everything I needed. They were concerned that I had not been able to shower post-run, so they brought water into my makeshift bathing area in the teeny broom closet sized bathroom of my house. I was sticky and salty from all the sweat and tears and would've loved to rinse off, but I couldn’t get my knee wet and honestly didn't have the energy to deal with it. Instead, I settled on using a wet towel to wipe myself down.

I then began packing up things in my pitch black house, lit only by my Luci light and candles on the floor. Peace Corps couldn't have gotten to me in time that evening, but they wanted to assess the damage and monitor for infection in person. Therefore, they were going to pick me up the following morning to bring me to Monrovia.

The night was difficult as I was hot and my knee was throbbing from the post-adrenaline impact and blood pooling in it. I tried to prop my leg up, but I only had two pillows and using the one under my knee simply didn't help, nor was it comfortable. So I tried to take Benadryl to help me pass out; also a fail. I'm pretty sure adrenaline and pain kept me up most of the night.

The next morning, I hobbled around my house finalizing my packing, expecting to spend 3-4 days in Monrovia. The ride to Monrovia in the Peace Corps car was extremely bumpy and somewhat challenging, but overall my knee wasn’t in too much pain as I had it stretched out across the bench seat in the back of the Landcruiser.

What my knee looked like upon arriving in Monrovia

Fast forward two days.

I’ve been in the capital with our PCMO keeping a close watch on my knee. I’ve had my blood drawn twice to check my white blood cell count to make sure it’s not high, a sign of infection (it hasn't been). I’ve been given crutches with which to walk around, but have been encouraged to try to stay seated with my knee elevated as much as possible. I’ve had my stitches removed as they were too tight and causing me a lot of pain. And, lastly, I’ve been told that I’ll be medically evacuated to Morocco to have a surgeon open up my knee, clean it out, and re-stitch it closed.

It’s been a roller coaster of a week with plenty of tears, fear, and uncertainty, but I’ve also been lucky to have such an amazing support system through this process. At every step, I’ve had Peace Corps staff assisting me by driving me around, carrying my things for me, or escorting me someplace. Peace Corps Volunteers who are in Monrovia have picked up food for me, handed me things from across the room when I didn’t want to get up and move my knee, and provided listening ears when I felt overwhelmed and needed to talk. I’ve had preventative and cautious medical care providers who have held my hand and distracted me during needle sticks, reassured me when I had breakdowns, and answered all of my questions.

If I were a Liberian, I would not have access to this kind of medical attention. The stitches would’ve been done at the clinic and that would have been that. Part of me is consumed by guilt that my laziness and stupidity at not picking up my feet up when simply going for a jog has already costed so much in medical bills.

But, when living in West Africa, where it seems like something (a bug, a virus, an animal or even witchcraft) is always trying to kill you, I guess it’s better to err on the side of caution. So I shall do just that, as I return to my favorite travel destination and consume all the fresh olives, dates, bread, and tagine washed down with as much Moroccan mint tea as my heart desires.