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Yes, it’s been well over a year since my last new blog post (in September I posted an old unpublished one I’d found, which was basically a glorified photo of the day). Yes, I survived my skin graft surgery and continued, albeit only for a short time, on my journey. Yes, I’ve been home for almost a year now. Yes, the last post I wrote (about the volcano incident that put an end to my mianderings for several months) was just about exactly 15 months ago and yes, that is, coincidentally or not, just about exactly the amount of time I’ve been back in the States now.

No, I did not intend to abandon my blog. Believe it or not, even after I stopped traveling and returned home I still had every intention of continuing to write posts. And yes, that means I am now well on my way to hell.

But in any case, I am finally doing it and am hoping that this magical ability I seem to have found to force myself to finally write something for the blog (Is there a law against how many times you can use the word ‘blog’ in a blog post? If not, perhaps there should be.) will, if not continue, at least serve to guilt me into not letting 15 months pass before the next one.

The truth is I still have photos galore and gone-but-not-quite-yet-forgotten travel stories to share. All I need is some more of that magical motivation dust to get me to, in the wise words of a previous generation’s Nike ad executives, just fuckin* do it.

And so I shall give you the briefest of updates and then direct you to what is, OK, really the briefest of updates: my six-word memoirs recounting the end of my trip. (Yes, I finished those back in February right after I got home, but no, I didn’t ever get around to telling anyone.)

Without further ado (about nothing, we know), I give you a brief account of the last 15 months.

Learned from a scientist friend (a rocket scientist, actually, and we know that rocket science and brain surgery are our culture’s jobs with the highest degree of apparent difficulty) that I’d inaccurately named my ‘lavafoot’ photo album. What had left me with third-degree (aka full-thickness) burns was volcanic mud. Lava, you see, glows. Which makes it a lot harder to step in accidentally. Who knew? Well, aside from the rocket scientist, apparently quite a few people—all of whom thought I had to be crazy for stepping in lava and who had obviously paid more attention in science class than I had.

Had skin graft surgery in Sydney on October 30, 2009. It hurt. A lot. A whole hell of a fucking lot. Awoke from the anesthesia to be confronted by the meanest nurse in history who basically yelled at me for moaning in pain. Spent another month at my cousin’s slowly starting to walk again with two crutches, one crutch, no crutches, escaping an oxycodone addiction by getting headaches and nausea from oxycodone, and wondering at my twice-to-thrice-weekly hospital visits why on earth that stupid-ass surgeon told me I’d be ‘better’ in a week. (It must be stated here the my cousin Tara, her husband, Andrew, and their lovely daughter, Scarlett, have my undying love and gratitude for taking me in and taking such good care of me [and taking me to all those damned hospital visits] for way longer than they should have ever been expected to.)

November 11, 2009. One of my last dressings. And the day the physiotherapist took me off crutches.

Graduated from twice-weekly dressing changes and evil skin-scrapings by the least sympathetic physician’s assistant in history to a compression sock which hurt like hell at first to wear but now (yes, 15 months later I still have to wear it) now luckily only hurts if I don’t wear it. Had twice-weekly physical therapy with the two kindest, most sympathetic, sweetest physical therapists in history. Had my health insurance run out on me but was treated anyway by said kind, etc. therapists (whose kindness made me cry more than once, I’ll admit. Yeah, things were really rough there for a while.)

November 18, 2009. My first try with the compression stocking. It hurt so much and made me bleed so I had to abandon it. Now this is what my leg looks like every day.

Healed enough that I was ready to leave my cousin’s and go on a 10-day silent meditation retreat—my third and, as I said after my second, my last. Spent a few days in the Blue Mountains which were quite lovely but not, like I’d originally thought, anywhere near my meditation retreat. Returned to Sydney for a week or so more of recuperating, then went to stay with my friends Lars (whom I know from high school) and Jilli and their son Nemo in Castlemaine, about an hour and a half outside of Melbourne. They were wonderful hosts to me for about two weeks and I’m so very lucky to have gotten to stay with them. Went to Melbourne for a week or so. Met some lovely folks there and enjoyed the city quite a lot.

Kangaroos! Just a short walk from my home-away-from-home in Castlemaine.

Flew to Tasmania to finally start ‘traveling’ again. Found you couldn’t really ‘travel’ anywhere in Tasmania without a car, so rented one with two boys too young to rent one themselves. Saw beautiful scenery. Felt really old. Traveled for another incredibly frustrating week on my own basing my itinerary on whatever buses happened to be running on whatever days.

My favorite thing about Tasmania was the road signs. You know I'm only slightly kidding.

Returned to Hobart (Tas’s capital. And yes, all Aussies call it Tas. Or Tassie.) for a few more days of sightseeing nearby but fell into a funk which became a depression which I later self-diagnosed as post-traumatic stress disorder.

You see (the theory goes), my foot was finally healed enough that it no longer needed 100% of my body’s energy to be focused on its healing. And once that physical stress was no longer in the spotlight, well, what appeared to happen was that the emotion, trauma, whatever you want to call the non-physical stress I’d been through for the last three months finally caught up with that other part of my body: my brain.

At that point I became entirely dependent upon the kindness of strangers, and I am forever grateful to a German woman my own age named Steffie who was my roommate in the godawful youth hostel in which I was staying. She took me out for brunch to celebrate my 41st birthday and, as I deteriorated shortly thereafter, cooked soup for us in the hostel kitchen to make sure I ate something other than the eggs I had boiled for myself before the PTSD had really taken hold.

After one godawful week borded my scheduled flight to Christchurch, New Zealand. My plan was to travel a month there and then fly back to Australia to catch my already-booked flights to Thailand and Burma (both tickets I had already purchased back in Castlemaine when I still thought I wanted to keep traveling). Almost wasn’t allowed on that flight because the one leg of the trip for which I was missing a ticket was the one from NZ back to Australia, and apparently you can’t enter New Zealand without having an exit ticket. Even if you can show proof that you’re booked on a bloody flight from Melbourne to Bangkok one month later, so OBVIOUSLY you’ll need to be leaving New Zealand to do that.

Spent a tearful hour or more putting a very nice travel agent (who assured me she’d seen worse) through hell finding out what my options were (A ticket to Fiji I wouldn’t use was in the offing. Clearly they’d done this before.) and trying to choose one. Finally I decided, since I was not allowed to purchase that one missing flight back to Australia (which I’d previously just assumed I’d purchase when I was in Kiwiland) because I didn’t yet have a visa, which was required in order to buy a ticket to Australia, that I’d simply had enough and this was probably a sign that I should just go home.

Spent approximately $1,600 on a flight from Auckland to New York for a month later, having been told by the travel agent that it would cost me only $150 to change the date. Made it to Christchurch, which was fucking cold. Realized New Zealand was fucking cold, especially the more beautiful parts to which I’d planned to travel (I was not, however, no matter how desperate things got, going to sign up for that Lord of the Rings Tour), and not only was I miserably depressed and lacking any motivation to plan my month of travels, I did not have the appropriate wardrobe for said month of travels.

My favorite thing about my hostel was this sign. You know I'm not even slightly kidding.

Was made even more depressed by staying in yet another youth hostel (this was what my budget would allow, unfortunately), was lucky enough to meet a friendly local yoga instructor / web designer with whom I saw several movies and basically had my only social contact in New Zealand, and decided what I needed to do was just get the hell out of there and go home—which I did, one week, several more tearful trips to travel agents and over $500 more dollars later.

Going, going, gone.

Realized on my way to the airport that it was the first day in weeks I hadn’t felt depressed.

Knew I’d made the right decision.

I’ve written way too much now to bother going into detail about the last 11 months at home. It’s pretty boring stuff anyway, so you’re not missing much. Suffice it to say that after recuperating with my dear friends Jessica and Hartley (and the lovely Zoe and Mollie) in Allentown, PA, and couchsurfing with various wonderful friends in the city, I moved back into my old apartment in May, two weeks ago finished my second long-term temporary job of the year, and am once again officially unemployed (the kind of unemployment without the unemployment check, unfortunately).

So I should have plenty of time to edit and upload those thousand-plus photos, some of which (can anyone say Angkor Wat?) I’ve been sitting on for almost two full years (!) now. Well, I didn’t do it any of the other times in the last year I was unemployed for several months at a stretch, so…don’t hold your breath. But do wish me some more magic motivation dust and…well, in the wise words of a past generation’s New York Lottery ad executives: you never fuckin* know.

Meantime, feel free to check out those six word memoirs, and at the very least I have many long-overdue photos of the day to post for you in the coming weeks.

Lastly, for the curious of mind / strong of stomach, what post-volcano blog post would be complete without updated photos? The ‘lavafoot’ album is still online, and new and, I’m pleased to report for all our sakes, much-less-gruesome photos have been added.

*OK, that particular word was mine.

Over the last two weeks I’ve tried coming up with different ways, none of them quite right, of setting out to tell the story of how I ended up where I am at this very moment, on an aerobed in my cousin’s living room in Sydney, nearing midnight, an oxycodone, a glass of wine and a sleeping pill under my belt and still awake thinking about the fact that soon I will be in the hospital undergoing skin graft surgery.

My first ‘mental writing’ of the blog post started with my throat, and went something like this:

The day after the accident I woke up with a sore throat and thought, ‘Great, just what I need now is to be getting sick on top of everything else.’ But it didn’t feel quite like the sore throat you get when you’re getting a cold or flu. Maybe it was from crying so much the night before, I thought. A post-nasal drip. It didn’t seem to last long, or perhaps my mind was too focused on the pain in my foot and getting myself on the 9:42 train that I forgot to notice. Later, on what turned out to be a 10:50 train, when I took a drink from my water bottle, I noticed it again and it hit me: it was from screaming. Twenty-four hours before I had screamed longer and harder and certainly louder than I’d ever screamed in my life. Surely that would have some kind of physical effect on one’s throat, right?

But that wasn’t it.

Not my screaming theory, which was, I believe, well…sound. I just couldn’t figure out where to go from there storywise.

Then there was the text transcription idea. As in transcribing some text messages I sent during and after my trip to Gunung (Volcano) Papandayan in West Java to my friend Marc, who had been living about 10 hours further east, in the city of Jogjakarta.

14-Oct-2009, 10:57:51 am
I am in the crater of an active volcano. The most active in indo. Fucking cool. Smelly tho. U should come here if u’ve never seen all the bubbly lava & shit!

14-Oct-2009, 01:03:38 pm
I’m in hospital w serious burn on foot & leg fr stepping in lava. Want 2 come 2 jog asap. Don’t trust docs here. Will try 2 go tomorrow. Can u talk to asheeth? Maybe u can meet me at train and take me 2 his place? Not sure how hard walking will be. Again. Can’t fucking believe this. I’m in so much pain.

14-Oct-2009, 08:55:52 pm
Injected pain killer seems 2 finally’ve set in. 2 bad it’s long after they drained my huge bubbleblisters, if u can even call em that, & cut off all my skin. Now waiting 4 hotel waitress 2 bring me back hosp receipt & change if there’s any, & drugs promised me by nice lady doc, including pain meds 4 sleep.

14-Oct-2009, 08:59:41 pm
Hurt so bad i screamed & cried like a baby. In fact screamed like i was having a baby & no doubt disturbed & perhaps amused others. These bules can’t take pain.

(‘Bule’ means ‘foreigner’ in Indonesian.)

But again, I wasn’t sure where to go from there. Too many blanks to fill in, and how to fill them?

Then there was the idea of starting way at the beginning. Like how I didn’t even know this volcano existed 48 hours before but was convinced by a hotel manager in Bandung and some older European tourists that I must see it (though I was skeptical, having seen a number of active volcanoes in different parts of the world and being therefore pretty volcano-jaded. Not as jaded as waterfall-jaded—which I totally am, as I never need to see another waterfall in my life—but still pretty jaded.).

Or how I set my alarm for 5:10 that morning but couldn’t get up and didn’t want to and snoozed until 7:30 and thought several times of just skipping the whole damned thing and going straight to the beach town six hours away, my original destination in West Java. And how something in my head told me maybe I wasn’t supposed to go to the volcano and something bad would happen if I did, which is not a normal type of thought for me so I dismissed it as silly, since I’ve never really been the type to have premonitions (well, except that time my backpack was stolen on the bus in Ecuador…but I wasn’t thinking about that in bed that morning when all I wanted to do was keep sleeping). I ultimately decided that coming all the way to this town, Cipanas, and not seeing the volcano was just too lame and I needed to get my lazy ass out of bed and go see the damned volcano, even though you are supposed to go early before the mist sets in and it was likely the weather would be crap and there’d be no visibility when I got there. (I also decided if that turned out to be the case it would be my own damned lazy-ass fault.)

But no, those things were really just tangents and would make the story too damned long. And, frankly, I’ve been tired from the pain meds and just haven’t felt like writing the whole story or writing at all (yes, even though I’ve now written all this, which is what always ends up happening when I get all Nike on myself and just do it.).

So, creative ideas now spent in the above half-assed ways, I will now just give you the facts as I’ve already related them a number of times in emails to friends and family. Plus photos, of course. I always have photos. Even in hospitals I have photos.

So, yeah, I went to this active volcano. My assumption was I would hike up the trail (about a half-hour walk, according to my guidebook) to the edge of the crater, look down, oooh and aaah, take photos and come down. But what I didn’t realize was that at this volcano you don’t look over the edge of the crater, you are basically in the crater.

IMG_7781

See that little sign in the back? It says 'balagadaha/crater.'

When I saw the bubbling pool of lava (the still image below links to the video, which for some reason I could not upload) I thought back to my other volcano experiences and concluded that no, I had not, in fact, seen anything quite like this. So I was glad I dragged my jaded ass here after all. Hence that first text to Marc.

MVI_7790-2

Click on this image to link to the video of the bubbling lava.

The nightmare started a short while later. I realized I couldn’t find the trail I’d come up on. It was basically all just rock everywhere (and lots of smoke, and lots of deep impassable crevasses in the rock out of which was coming lots of smoke). And it all looked the same. I kept starting off in different directions, each of which at some point ended up far enough out that I knew it was not, in fact, the trail.

On one of those false starts I stepped on what looked to be solid grey rock but turned out to be soft and hot and…lava-y? I pulled my foot out quickly but still felt the heat on my sock for several minutes and thought ‘Whew, that was close. It really is dangerous up here. I’d better be more careful.’ I even took a picture for the blog. Little did I know.

IMG_7795

My first misstep.

So, yes, on another of my false trails I ended up doing the same thing, except this time I felt my foot go down into what felt like burning hot quicksand (if someone wants to correct me and tell me what I stepped in was not actually lava but volcanic mud or something with a more technical name, please do. Since I am both ignorant of such things and lazy (lazy/traumatized? Not sure.), I have not yet managed to google it.). I pulled it out quickly as I could but it was too late. My leg and foot felt like they were on fire. I had no idea what to do. (Except scream.) I rolled up my pants leg and poured some of the water in my bottle on it, but didn’t take my shoe and sock off because touching them would burn my hands. And even after it cooled I knew I would still have to walk back.

And I screamed. I screamed from the pain. Then I screamed for help. I screamed like I never screamed before. And I blew my whistle (which is attached to the zipper of the daypack I carry). I was doing my best not to get hysterical, though. Trying not to think about how no one might hear me (it’s very loud up there, what will all the lava bubbling and geysers smoking). About how there might not be anyone coming up at all (since it was so much later in the morning than you are supposed to go), in which case I wouldn’t be found until God-knew-when. About how I could die up there and no one would know. Clearly my best was not successful enough, but I pushed those thoughts away as best I could. Like I said, I was managing thus far not to really lose it.

I knew the one thing I had to do was find the trail back, so thankfully the adrenaline or whatever enabled me to keep walking so I could attempt to do so. On yet another false start I ended up in view of a stopping point I’d been at on the way up, where three Indonesian guys had insisted on each taking a separate photo with me (in Indonesia being a foreigner is kind of like being a celebrity in that for some reason strangers want their photo taken with you). I saw three people and assumed it was those guys and started waving my arms and screaming like crazy. The moment I saw them begin to move up the trail in my direction is when I finally cried and started, frankly, to get a bit hysterical. When I knew I would be rescued. Both makes sense and doesn’t at the same time, eh?

So I walked back toward the crater sign once again (my only marker). The three figures turned out to be two of the young guides I’d met when I’d paid my entrance fee (and whose services I’d refused because, well, I was sure I didn’t need a guide for a half-hour walk up a marked trail to a volcano and back) and an Australian guy who was clearly much, much smarter than me.

IMG_7796

About half-hour after the accident, on the way back down the trail (since I was being carried by a rather small guy probably still in his teens, we of course had to take rest stops).

If you can believe it, the guides felt the appropriate thing to do at that moment was to lecture me repeatedly with their fucking ‘I told you so’s—‘that moment’ being while I was in excruciating pain and getting more and more hysterical and begging them to take me to a hospital.

I shouldn’t complain, of course, since one of them ended up carrying me down on his back—for which I am, of course, forever grateful. (He mentioned several more times on the way how I should have taken a guide. Jesus Christ, did he think I was not sorry I hadn’t taken a guide?) Near the bottom of the rocky trail another guide had come with his motorcycle, and took me the rest of the way down and then to a clinic about 20 minutes away where no one spoke English and the standard of care was, well, substandard. But at least the guy there used Betadine, put on a bandage and gave me some drugs.

Then motorcycle guy, a very sweet young guy whose name was something like Jaja, took me back to my hotel (about 40 minutes’ drive), where I managed to get them to find me someone who could speak English, who helped me book me a private car (driven by said guy’s brother) to take me two hours to the nearest city, Taksimalaya, where I knew (from Marc’s research) that I could get a train to Jogja the next morning.

That night the pain grew worse and worse until I could barely walk (when I saw the two huge brown blister-bubble things that had grown out of the sides of my ankle when they took off the bandage I could see why!), so I hobbled out of my room and asked the hotel staff to help get me to a hospital. A young woman from the restaurant spoke some English and asked if I wanted her to accompany me, to which I of course said yes. She turned out to be really helpful, so I was very lucky to have her with me.

So, yes, as I explained in my texts to Marc, they drained all the liquid and cut all the hanging skin away and it hurt like hell. But I was pretty OK the next morning and got the train to Jogja and got myself to Marc’s apartment. It was later that night that the pain got so much worse that I was no longer able to walk. For the next five days or so I hopped around the swelteringly hot room Marc was renting, and he drove me on his motorbike to the local hospital, where they gave me new dressings and new pain meds. By now I had amassed quite the collection.

IMG_7804

drugs drugs drugs

During this time I had been showing my gruesome photos (which you can see if you really want to) to several nurse and doctor friends back home in the States to get their advice. Then I found out I could see a dermatologist at the hospital and did that. She told me the care I’d been getting from the ER and clinic staff (in her own hospital) had not been ‘adequate,’ and the bandage needed to be changed every day, not every two days. She also said that I was in danger of losing range of motion in my ankle because I had not been moving it at all (because of the pain) and the skin was starting to heal in the (unbent) position my foot was in. One of my nurse friends and one other doctor had told me this as well, so at this point I was very concerned about that and about my care overall, and realized that this whole situation was just really untenable. And basically just bad. I was scared. So I decided to get out.

The next day I was on a plane to Sydney, where my cousin lives and where I felt more confident in the standard of the health care.

When I first got here I went to a local GP who told me the burn would take three to six months to heal and that I had to change the dressing myself every day (unless I wanted to pay $50 to $80 a visit for him to do it). For three to six months. Wow. So my cousin bought me the supplies I needed and her husband helped me change the dressing for the first time the next day. From the time we did that the pain got worse and worse until during the night it had become truly unbearable. So, fearing something was still not right, the next day I went to the ER and was seen by several nurses and doctors who told me that the dressing I had was all wrong, as were the pain meds given to me by the GP, as was the prognosis and treatment. They said what I needed was a skin graft. Wow.

So they referred me to the burn unit at another hospital, where I went yesterday for my consultation, and now I’m scheduled for the surgery on Friday. They will be taking skin from my thigh and grafting it onto the two places (right where the ankle bones stick out) where the burn was the worst (3rd degree, as it turns out, though I’d been told it was all 2nd degree by all the other doctors I’d remembered to pose the question to). And, miracle of miracles, the surgeon (named Aruna…they seem to use only first names in the medical profession here) confidently and cheerfully assured me that in about a week it would be completely healed (well, the skin will always look different from my other skin there; that’s the only ‘scarring’ I can expect). Then I will just need physical therapy to make sure I get back my ankle mobility and range of motion—which my two cheerful and confident physical therapists, Rachel and Julie, have assured me I will.

So overall, though of course I feel unlucky to have had another accident (what is it with my left leg this year, anyway?), this time so much more serious, I am of course lucky in so, so many ways.

Lucky that it was not worse. (I’m here and ready to do the Merrell/Goretex commercial the minute they ask me. That shoe seriously saved me. If my entire foot had been burned, especially the bottom, well, I don’t even want to begin to think about how much worse it could have been.)

Lucky I had Marc (to whom I am forever grateful) to take me in and take care of me in Jogja.

Lucky I have a cousin living in Australia who was willing to take me in and take care of me (again, I am forever grateful to Tara and her husband Andrew and their 3-year-old daughter Scarlett whose smiles and laughter and general adorableness have also been helping a lot).

Lucky I was able to get somewhere I am finally getting the right medical care.

And lucky to be alive and for this to (hopefully) have turned out to be nothing more a particularly bad chapter in my travels (as opposed to something more permanent).

And now, of course, I’ve written a more detailed account than I’d planned to when I though I’d just spit the rest of the story out. But…yeah. That’s my story.

Thanks for reading it, and please send your best successful-surgery, speedy-recovery, good-healing thoughts, energy, vibes, prayers—whatever your brand of that kind of thing is—my way on Friday morning* (and during my week of recovery, too, if you remember)! Thanks!

And special thanks to my friends and family who’ve been checking in on me every step (ugh, sorry) of the way during this ordeal. It’s been so comforting to me to know someone was always (time differences notwithstanding) out there in cyberspace for me to ‘talk’ to. Thank you SO much!

Photos of Gunung Papandayan (including the bubbly lava video) are here.

For the morbidly curious (and strong-stomached), photos of my injury are here. But seriously, don’t look if you are not morbidly curious and/or strong-stomached. Seriously.

*Sydney is 15 hours ahead of EST in the States, so my Friday morning is your late afternoon/early evening on Thursday.

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