The Game of OPERATION! (New version)
The Emergency Surgery Game You Can Play Outdoors
Greetings. My apologies, but the regularly scheduled interview with an old friend of mine had to be postponed, as she had to deal with a family emergency.
So, I’ll write about myself, my favorite subject. The moral of this story is survival, not reinventing yourself. This is a story about how van life almost killed me, again.
***
Some of you know I retired a few years ago, got a campervan and a dog, and planned a six-month tour of the lower 48 states, then I got hooked. Now, we’ve been on the road for three years, full-time.
It’s dangerous out here. About every six months, I have a near-death experience.
Nothing bad has happened since January 2025, other than heavily-armed police in Calgary, Canada, evicting me and my dog from a Starbucks in late July, so I was overdue for trouble.
I try to nearly die in remote places where there is virtually no chance of any help. It makes for more exciting stories.
***
Let me introduce you to Lassen National Volcanic Park, located in the Sierra Nevada mountains of northeastern California, which is about as remote a place as any. This scenic park is a great place to go hiking on foot trails that take you very close to an active volcano.
You’re gonna lava it.
Little-known fact: The national parks do not allow dogs on the trails, so we drove through the park on a narrow, two-lane, death-defying road that forced me to careen precipitously around tight hairpin curves, white-knuckled, trying NOT to look over the edge of the road, poised on a sheer cliff where we could easily plunge to our death.
What fun! As you will surmise, we did not plunge to our death driving through Lassen.
I found a more interesting way to die.
***
It was Friday evening, the 8th of August, and very hot. California had been like a blast furnace for the whole month of August. The only relief we found was at high elevation, in the mountains. Late in the afternoon, we left Lassen, at 8,000 feet, and drove to Hat Creek campground, at 6,000 feet. The lower we got, the hotter it got.
When we found a campsite, after 6 p.m., it was about 90°F. The forecast was for a hot night. Desperate, I toddled to Hat Creek. I dipped my bare feet in the cold runoff from last winter’s snow, melting high up in the Sierra Nevada. That cooled me off.
But, suddenly, inside my gut, something hurt. Bad. I bent over and winced. What the hell?
Why, I asked my dog, did I have a sharp pain in my lower right abdomen? “How should I know?” he said. “I’m a dog. You should ask a doctor. Sometimes you’re not very smart.”
***
He was right, as usual. I should ask a doctor, but the campground had no cell signal and no Wi-Fi. No means to communicate with the outside world. The pain was getting worse. Shit.
My logical brain kicked in. Be calm. Evaluate the possibilities. Was it appendicitis, or another hernia? Thirty years ago, I had a hernia down there.
No one around me to ask for medical advice either. At the next campground, a group of young people, playing beer pong. A strong stench of stinkweed floated out from their spot. They did not appear likely to be a source of sound medical opinions.
At another nearby campsite was a crowd of bearded survivalists. Mostly men. You can tell they are survivalists by the way they point their shotguns at you if you come anywhere near. “You just hold it right there, feller. We’ll shoot. Swear to God we will!”
***
So, no likely sources of help nearby. As usual on the road, we were alone. No friends. It had taken getting used to, but over the past three years, I learned to expect nothing.
We would make it on our own or face the consequences. That’s how it works.
“Ok, Mr. Bones, it looks like we’re on our own here tonight,” I said. “It’s Friday evening, and I don’t know where to go for help. No point driving around blind in the dark. Let’s wait till tomorrow morning and hope that my appendix doesn’t burst.”
I had no idea how likely that was.
A small voice in my brain said, “Can we panic now?” “No,” I said, “That won’t help.” On the road, it was often a battle in my brain between my panic instincts and the voice of reason.
Keep calm. Think logically. Evaluate the situation. The pain persisted, but I had no nausea or vomiting, two typical symptoms of appendicitis. Objectively, the pain level seemed to be stable; painful, not visceral yet. It continued all evening, making sleep next to impossible.
I just lay in the dark, in sweltering heat, sweating, in pain. Imagining possible outcomes.
Another fun night in the woods.
My brilliant emergency plan, if the damn thing burst, was to start blowing the horn, hoping that someone would come over to see what was wrong, but knowing it was more likely they would get angry and shout at me.
“What the fuck are you blowing your horn in the middle of the night for?”
***
This kind of emergency was the Achilles heel of my van life adventure. I had figured out early on that I could not get sick or die, because who would take care of my dog if that happened? When I got him from the shelter, I promised him I’d always take care of him.
So, for three years, I had never gotten sick or died, at least not until now.
***
After a long, rather grueling night, Saturday morning finally dawned.
I dragged myself out of the van and drove back to the entrance to Lassen. At the entry station, I asked if they had medics on duty, or a doctor or nurse. The ranger shook her head. “A couple of the rangers have taken the EMT course. They can take a look at you if you want.”
Two eager, clueless rangers arrived, carrying a large duffel bag stuffed with medical gear. They asked me if I was having a heart attack, and if I wanted them to restart my heart; apparently, the only thing they were equipped to do. “No,” I said, “But thanks.”
“But could you tell me where the nearest hospital is. I think I have appendicitis.”
They sent me to a rural medical center in Falls River Mills, 45 miles away, where the long-haired hippie doctor on duty, who was wearing a Star Wars-themed T-shirt and matching bandanna, took a break from listening to the Grateful Dead to examine me.
He ran me through the CAT scan machine, took some blood, and confirmed that it was appendicitis. He ordered me not one but two IV anti-biotics. ‘This will keep the infection from worsening until we can transfer you to the regional medical center.”
Transfer me? “We don’t have an operating room, and there is no surgeon on duty up here. So, you have to go to the Regional Medical Center down in Redding, California, about 70 miles away.”
“The problem,” he said, “is that our rural clinic only has one ambulance.”
And?
“Well, we can’t send you there in our ambulance. It has to stay here in case someone local has a heart attack.” Good point. I thought for a moment and asked, “Could I drive myself down there?”
He gave me the odd look a doctor gives to a patient who is a complete moron.
“Sir, I can’t allow a person who is having a medical emergency to drive themselves an hour down to the regional medical center.” Oh, right. I should have thought of that.
“So,” he said, “We’ll have to get you a helicopter.”
Initially, that sounded exciting, but then I wondered about the cost. “Excuse me, doctor, but who’s going to pay for that?” I asked. “I can’t afford it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re on Medicare. That should cover it.” I hoped so.
Helicopter rides don’t come cheap.
***
“Ok,” I said, “What about my dog? Where can I leave him? Who will take care of him?”
The duty nurse spoke up. “I know a lady in the next town who is a dog groomer. She also has a dog-sitting business. She’s very nice.” “Oh, wow,” I said. “Could you please call her for me?” She smiled. “I’d be happy to. Glad to help. That’s how we are here.”
Her friend drove to the clinic to pick up my dog. They let me walk him out front. I gave the woman his bag of dry-frozen cow liver treats, at which point he forgot me, followed the bag of treats, jumped in the back seat of her SUV, and off they went.
Dog problem solved. Now, where is that helicopter? Isn’t this a damn emergency?
***
I spent most of the afternoon lying in that bed, antibiotics running into me, waiting.
Every so often, the doctor would pass by and tell me they were still looking for a helicopter. “Some days it’s hard to find one,” he said. “Today is one of those days.”
Finally, late in the afternoon, a small red helicopter from the Williams County Fire Rescue landed, and a crew of three came inside to get me. Three big guys. They put me on a gurney and wheeled me out. They asked me, “Do you want to sit in front?”
“Sure!” I said. They tilted the gurney up so I could see through the windshield and belted me in. I readied myself to blast off, imagining a high-speed helicopter ride.
Not so fast.
***
The pilot started the engine. Wop wop wop wop. A lot of noise, but not much motion.
We sat there. On the ground. The helicopter slowly inched off the ground and rose to about three feet, where it stayed, while the blades kept wopping.
Looking out the window at the ground, I could have easily and safely jumped out.
Puzzled, I shouted a question to the pilot over the engine noise, “Are we going to get any higher?” How could we fly over the mountains just three feet off the ground?
He nodded. “Yes. It’s very hot today and we’re at high elevation,” he said. “Those are the two WORST conditions for take-off. We have to wait till it chops its way up.”
Slowly, the helicopter rose, but it only looked like it was about 100 feet off the ground. High enough to skim above the treetops, but not a very impressive height. It seemed to fly slowly over the treetops. “How fast are we going?” I asked? “Oh, about 150 mph,” he said. “It just seems slow. Like when you look out a plane window. The plane seems to go very slowly.”
On the way, I pondered my fate. Eight hours wasted since they diagnosed me.
Once we finally arrived at the Mt. Shasta Regional Medical Center helipad, the helicopter slowly settled down on the roof of the hospital. The guys calmly wheeled the gurney into the ER. “Wouldn’t it make a bigger impression?” I asked, “if you ran in shouting ‘STAT’?”
No way, Jose.
In an E.R. bay near mine, a male patient shouted at the staff, “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill all of you.”
“Nice guy,” I said to the doctor nearest me. “We get all kinds,” he said. “He’s a drug addict. “He wants drugs, but we can’t do that.”
By now, it was about 6 p.m. Some emergency. The transfer had taken about six hours. I expected a mad rush to the O.R. Instead, I was waiting for Godot.
In the E.R., one doctor after another checked on me. Each one said the same thing. “We’re trying to find a bed so we can admit you.” Hours passed. It got later and later.
I was hungry. “Can I eat something?” I asked. “No,” they said, ”They might want to operate on you tonight.” “How about a little water?” No. “Ice chips?” NO! Nothing.
If you’re going to starve me to death, just kill me, I thought.
***
Finally, about 9 p.m., a nurse came by and said, “Ok, we found you a bed. They’re going to take you upstairs now.” “Am I going to have the appendectomy tonight?” “Oh, no,” she said, “The O.R. closed at 5 pm, before you arrived. All the surgical staff went home.”
Should have asked the nurse first. She was the only one who knew what was going on.
“So, can I get something to eat, then?” I asked. “I’m really hungry.” “Sorry, they stopped serving dinner at 8 pm.“ Oh, no.
“So are you going to make me go all night without eating?” My lower lip quivered. I may have shed a tear. Food makes me emotional. I’m not ashamed to admit it.
“OK, wait, let me see. Hey, look, I found you a cold turkey sandwich.”
***
Upstairs, but still no surgery!
Soon after I arrived in the surgery ward, a burly male nurse came in, a white-haired gentleman, macho-looking, with hands as big as bear paws.
“Hi,” he said, loudly, “I’m STEVE. I’ll be your NURSE. Are you HERE by yourself? Any FAMILY?” Like a professional wrestler shouting at his opponent in the ring, he barked every 3rd or 4th word out loudly and gutturally. It made me jump each time.
“No family,” I said. “Just me.” He nodded, side-eyeing me. Did he think I was another homeless guy they had picked up in an alley somewhere? But his demeanor was gentle as he adjusted the bed. “This should MAKE you more COMFORTABLE.”
“STEVE,” I barked. “Something tells ME that YOU have not been a nurse your WHOLE adult life. What did YOU do before THIS?” He smiled. “Oh, I was a FISHERMAN up in Alaska for 25 YEARS. I’ve been a NURSE for about TEN years.”
I knew it.
“What made you choose nursing?” I asked. “Oh, I’ve always liked to HELP people! “ “Do you know what time the surgery will be tomorrow?” I asked.
“Let me SEE what I can FIND out,” he said, leaning in, speaking conspiratorially.
***
The rest of the evening went quietly. I drifted off to sleep.
Sometime during the night, I heard a loud knock at the door. It burst open. A very tall man filled the doorway, blocking the light from the hallway. He looked like a giant. Or a killer.
My heart skipped. Who the hell is this guy?What is he going to do to me?
He flipped the light on, wheeled a cart in, and stood over me. As I stared up at him, the overhead light hid his face from me. I heard a deep voice say, “I’m here for your blood!”
What the hell? My blood? All of it? I pulled the thin sheet up to my chin for protection.
“What time is it?” I asked, confused, still fuzzy from sleep. “Four a.m.” Jesus.
“Who are you?” I asked, suspiciously. “I’m from the lab.” No name. Brief answers. A note of irritation in his voice. Is he going to take my blood, I wondered, or kill me?
“Do you have to take it now? At 4 a.m.?” “No, but if I don’t take it now, they won’t be able to do the surgery in the morning.” Sigh. “Alright,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Good,” he said, snapping the rubber tourniquet like a kid playing with a rubber band. “I love taking blood.” He snapped it on my arm, drew the blood, removed it, and left.
What next? It seemed like a coordinated scheme to deprive me of sleep. About 5 a.m., another knock. This time, it was a nurse checking my vitals pre-surgery. Christ.
Just after sunrise, an orderly wheeled me out of pre-surgery, down the hall, and into the bed-sized elevator, bumping the gurney into every possible obstacle along the way.
Bump. Clunk. Boink. Doing. Does this guy drive this way, I wondered? Then the gurney rolled into the operating room. Oh, the scent of antiseptic in the morning!
Bright lights overhead. Cold air. I shivered in my thin hospital gown. People stood around, dressed in blue and green scrubs, wearing surgical caps, face masks, and rubber gloves. Bored. Yawning. Faces looked down at me, disinterestedly.
“How soon will you start? “I asked. “We’re just waiting for the surgeon to arrive.”
The anesthesiologist spoke. “I’m going to give you an injection now that will put you to sleep.” The needle went into the port on my forearm.
I heard him say, “Counting down. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6…” Then, I was gone.
Then, the surgeon marched in and seated himself at the console of the Da Vinci machine to perform a robotic appendectomy, using one of its five mechanical arms to separate the swollen appendix and drop it into a plastic pouch, without bursting it. Then he withdrew it, safely, through one of the tiny incisions the Da Vinci machine had made in my abdomen.
Kind of like the way I fished around skillfully in the tall grass to collect my dog’s poop when he drops it into a spot that is hard to reach, without getting it on my fingers.
***
Hmm? Where am I? Waking up from surgery. Not sure how long I had been out…
So, I am still alive. That’s good. Where am I? Oh, back in my hospital room again. A young male nurse came in and asked me, “Do you have any pain?” ”No.” “Do you want any pain medication?” ‘No,” I said, “I just want to get out of here and get my dog.”
‘Well, you’ll have to wait for the surgeon to discharge you.” “When will he arrive?” I asked.
“No one knows.” Great system.
***
Hours went by. Staring at the ceiling. I began to feel hungry again.
The nurse came in. “Can I have something to eat?” I asked. “No,” he said, “not until you have a bowel movement first. You’re constipated by the anesthesia. Eating now could cause serious complications.”
Christ. This hospital is trying to starve me to death. I’ve got to shit.
“Can I get a laxative, please?” “Sure.” He handed me a tiny cup of Metamucil. I chugged the chalky laxative, then, after an hour, another, then another. Nothing. “Damn.” I had not been this determined to poop since potty training.
I unhooked my IV pole from the wall, got out of bed, and began walking up and down the halls of the ward, around and around, pushing my IV pole in front of me, holding the back of my gown closed, hiding my ass, trying to get my bowels to start moving.
Round and round. No other patients were on their feet. I went for the record. “Is the surgeon making rounds here this afternoon?” “We don’t know.“ “Can you find out?”
Dinner time. I could smell the food and saw them push the cart past my door. “Hey, can I have something? Soft food?” “No, we still can’t hear any bowel sounds. Sorry.”
Not as sorry as I am.
***
Nine p.m. Still no food. My stomach began growling. A good sign. Nurse Steve was back on duty. “Hey Steve, buddy, can you get me something to eat, please? They haven’t given me anything all day. Soft food is fine. My stomach is growling. My bowels are talking, too.”
Before answering me, Steve looked over his shoulder to see if any other nurses were listening. “I’ll SEE if I can FIND something for you to EAT.” He hit the verbs hard.
Another hour went by.
Then, Steve snuck into the room, balancing some goodies in his big hands. “Hey, look. I got you some CHEESE and crackers and a couple of YOGURTS,” he said, like a thief in the night, dumping the items in my open hands before rushing out of the room.
“Don’t tell anybody. I don’t want to get in trouble.“
***
Monday morning.
Still no sign of the surgeon.
About 10 a.m., the ward doc popped into my room. He was a tall, rail-thin man with a comical knot of curly hair on either side of his head, oversized shoes, and a funny walk.
“Hi, I’m Dr. BOZO,” he said, in a high, funny voice. Another weird way of talking. For him, every third or fourth word went up an octave, like a stuck pig squealing.
“WE’RE going to let you OUT today!”
“But I haven’t seen the surgeon,” I protested. “Why do YOU need to see HIM?" Bozo squeaked, “You had a ROBOTIC procedure. It was ROUTINE. Nothing to worry about.”
“But I’d like to see the surgeon. Isn’t that the normal procedure?” I asked. He frowned.
“He’s got OTHER worries. An appendix BURST on him last NIGHT. Can we hurry up here? SORRY. I’ve got three MORE urgent admissions waiting on me NOW.”
Great. What the hell kind of hospital is this, I wondered? The nurse is a professional wrestler, the ward doctor is a clown, and they starve the patients.
“Anyway, you’re free to GO now,” Bozo beamed. “He signed your discharge.”
“But how am I going to get to where I left my van? It’s over 70 miles away.” “Oh, can’t you just take an UBER?” he asked. “Who’s going to pay for that?” I asked. “That could cost hundreds of dollars.”
Another frown. “We’ll SEE what we can DO. But you’re not supposed to drive for two weeks.” Right.
“Ok,” I said. Knowing that I had to be in the San Francisco area by Thursday morning.
But I did not tell the doctor about that.
***
Finally, they provided a medical taxi to drive me back to pick up my dog and my van. A very nice woman drove me all the way up there and was kind enough to stop first for my dog.
“Mr. Bones!” I said, happy to see him. He squirmed with joy and tried to jump on me. “No, Mr. Bones. No jumping today. Down.” Next, I got the van and found a hotel. Mr. Bones curled up next to me on the bed. We fell asleep. Slept all afternoon and all night.
But how would we make it to San Francisco the next day?
***
Tuesday morning.
What a day. I woke up feeling like Superman. No pain, unless I coughed or sneezed, which I tried \hard not to do. I didn’t want to blow out the stitches. I knew I had to drive myself 300 miles to San Francisco for a writing workshop that cost me a lot of money.
We got in the van. No pain. Full of energy. Feeling like a million dollars. We hit the road in the van and reached the San Francisco area in record time.
All stitches still intact. So far.
***
Time to wrap up this week’s episode.
Once again, I’d had a close call, but once again, I didn’t die. My dog probably saved my life. Without him, I might have gone on a long hike and been hours away from any help when the appendicitis began, with no ability to hike back out.
Sometimes things happen for a reason. You probably expect me to tell you what it was, but I have no clue whatsoever. Let me know if you figure it out. Maybe, just maybe, I survived so that I could attend the travel writing workshop and actually learn how to write good stories.
On the first day of my writing workshop, I met a famous adventure-travel writer, Tim Cahill. One of my heroes. In his adventures, he also nearly dies on a regular basis. We bonded over my recent near-death experience. “You’re alright!” he said, giving me a pat on the back.
Sometimes it pays to almost die. You might make some cool new friends.