Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [64]
The morphine was giving me a terrible migraine. Eight hours come and go, and they still don’t have the CT machine fixed. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The worst part about it for me was the total lack of control.
You can call it ego, or cockiness, or arrogance, or anything else you want, but I’m used to being in control. Some people were meant to lead, others were meant to follow. I was born to take charge. It’s not only what I do, it’s who I am.
All morphined up in that hospital, I was helpless, and I was hating every second of it. Rena, who, unbeknownst to us, was pregnant with my third child, our second son, was sitting next to my hospital bed, watching the hours go by. She had never seen me like this. She was scared, but she was ready to spring into action the moment we made a game plan.
More time went by. Still no new part for the machine. My condition was getting worse. I didn’t know if I was dying, but it sure felt like I was.
The hospital gave me more morphine, and started me on chicken broth. They wanted to get something inside me, some nourishment, but my body rejected the chicken broth and I started throwing up everywhere. I may have been all zoned out on morphine, but I could tell something was seriously wrong with me. When your body can’t even handle chicken broth, you’re in big trouble, but that was secondary to the fact that I had no clue what was wrong, since they couldn’t get a picture of my stomach. The doctor didn’t know either. He was waiting on the part for the machine. Time was slipping away, and I was wondering if I would ever make it out of that hospital alive.
I put my faith in the doctors at that hospital. I shouldn’t have. It almost cost me my career. It almost cost me my life.
Another day goes by, and I’m still going downhill. I’ve been in the hospital all weekend, and they still don’t have a CT scan. They keep telling me the part for the machine is coming, and that I just need to wait a little longer.
I’m more than a little concerned. How much longer is this going to take? Can you please be a little more precise than “We’re waiting on the part” or “It’ll be here very soon”? What’s very soon? How much time do I have until you’re going to need to cut me open just to keep me alive?
When I told Rena I was going to die waiting for them to fix the CT machine, we both knew what we had to do. I said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.” She was happy to hear me say this because she was thinking the same thing.
I called one of the nurses in and asked for more pain medication. What I didn’t tell her is that I needed the pain medication because I was planning to bolt, and had a long drive ahead of me. Rena and I intended to get in the car and head for the U.S. border just as fast as we could go so I could get myself into a real hospital.
Before we left, however, we needed a plan. Bismarck, North Dakota, was the closest U.S. city, so I called Kim Sabot. His son Jesse had been my roommate in Bismarck State College. Kim had dealt with his own health issues over a long period of time, and he assured us that the hospital in Bismarck could take care of me.
Destination? Bismarck!
Rena wheeled me out of the Canadian hospital, got me into the passenger seat, and we were off. Like Chad, she was only driving ninety-nine miles an hour, which made me bat-shit crazy. The damn vehicle had a governor on it. It wouldn’t go any faster.
It is a four-hour car ride to Bismarck from the Canadian hospital I was in, and the pain on that drive was unbearable. I have a high threshold for pain, higher than most guys, and I couldn’t deal with it. It felt like I had taken a shotgun blast to the stomach, and then someone poured in some salt and Tabasco and stirred it all up with a nasty pitchfork.
Rena got me to Bismarck, and we could tell the people in the hospital were on point. Within twenty minutes, I was already getting a CT scan and antibodies. A few minutes later, the doctors diagnosed me with