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A small cut can bleed a river

19 October 2024


"Fortunately, I escaped with just a bloodied elbow … and very wounded pride," was how I described the very small cut I got when exiting the beautiful Palais des Sports de Puteuax indoor pool on the morning of October 1st.


When I got back to my hotel room and before heading out to my business meetings for the day, I swapped the gauze and tape for a plaster/band-aid and went on about my day. In fact, for the next 10 days, I went on with my life as if nothing happened. I had no pain anywhere from the slip and fall on the deck and my subsequent training was energetic and productive.


Then, in the late afternoon London time of Friday October 11th, while on my last client Teams call of the week, a sudden wave of fever and chills came over me. In a matter of less than 45 minutes, I went from feeling fine (with, in hindsight, a little tenderness on my elbow) to a shivering or sweating mess. As soon as the call was over, in the midst of chills, I went to bed and crawled under the covers. I was convinced this must be COVID, never thinking about my elbow.


Thankfully, I have both a nurse wife and a retired GP father-in-law (who was visiting us). When my wife got back and found me in bed, she took one look at my elbow - now swollen and bright red - and pronounced that I had an infection. Her dad did his own quick examination and confirmed the diagnosis. More than that, they both thought I needed to get to the urgent care ASAP.


Ruining our Friday night dinner plans, we did just that, but the doc at the urgent care confirmed it was the right choice to come in. I definitely had an infection, my CRP infection marker was elevated, but that it should be brought under control with an oral dose of antibiotics. I was sent home with an antiobiotic prescription, a nice drawing of the 'impact zone' on my arm and advice to come back if things got worse over the weekend.


Things seemed to get better. My wife and I caught a couple of films at the London Film Festival on Saturday night and Sunday morning (Elton John fans should definitely see the new documentary Never Too Late). We went to a Ukrainian charity concert where one of my Masters Swimming friends was playing in the orchestra. I figured the antibiotics were doing their thing.


They were ... but not enough.


By late Sunday evening, the alternating fever and chills had returned, the swelling had gone well beyond the markings from Friday evening and my whole forearm was bright red. I was back at the urgent care right as it opened on Monday morning and, when my infection markers were 10x what they had been on Friday, swiftly progressed from there to the attached hospital. After more bloodwork and an ultrasound, the doctor drew a nice explanation of where the inflammation was (started in the bursa and radiated down from there), then used the scary term 'concerned about sepsis,' and 'we need to admit you now for a number of days of IV antibiotics.'


The only other time I've ever been admitted to the hospital was 30 years ago when I contracted malaria in Mozambique (while there for a swimming competition!). I was stunned that this simple little cut had come to this, but they soon had me in a bed, with an IV stuck in my right hand and my left, injured arm, up in a sling to allow gravity to assist in reducing the swelling ...



... and there I sat for three days, cold medicine flowing in four times a day, blood drawn once a day, blood pressure and vital signs seemingly taken everytime a nurse walked into the room. It was the strangest time. With both my arms "tied up" (one literally), I had a lot of time to marvel that such a small cut could have turned into this.


My doctor was not surprised. He called swimming pools "petri dishes of disease" and banned me from swimming for two weeks afterwards, when I was sent home with another round of oral antibiotics to really ensure these bugs were completely nuked from my system. I dutifully followed his advice and did not swim again until after my follow-up appointment (where my infection markers were back to normal).


I am left now with what is called a 'calcified bursa,' essentially a somewhat hardened bursa sac instead of a more fluid-filled sac ... not exactly the memento I would have liked to bring home from the City of Lights!


As for swimming in pools - "Petri dishes of disease" comments be damned! - I will never stop swimming. I will, however, be a bit more careful walking around the deck, getting into and out of the pool, and will remember every step on the Mayo Clinc's first aid guide for cuts should I ever cut myself again.

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