In all 26 examples, they would have had A LOT of danger receptors nociceptors singing loud and strong in the tissue that had been injured. But the pain response was different for everyone, from really strong to not much at all. What does that tell you? If pain is a problem for you not necessarily gun shot wounds! We know that if you understand pain, it helps. It gives you freedom, you can approach your treatment or exercise with more confidence.
It can directly affect your outcome. This course contains the same information that we use with our patients that attend the clinic — we will be using this as an adjunct to treatment.
Who knew how long I'd be there, how long we'd all be lying in the street, going in and out of consciousness as we waited for someone to help us. Which eventually happened, though I remember only a few brief snatches of those early moments in the hospital. I awoke while on a gurney in the elevator, felt tubes in my nose, and began to yank them out.
Nurses on either side of me began shouting, restraining my hands and trying get the tubes back down my nose and into my gut. Most people who catch a bullet there don't survive. So many drugs coursed through my body, so many faces and voices passed in and out of awareness.
My closest friends, my magazine editor, the mayor, and the mayor's spokesperson had all converged on the hospital and were sitting sentry, worrying. Of the 19 people shot, my injuries were the most severe, and my prospects for survival were not good. The bullet had landed in a place the LSU surgeons nicknamed the "Soul Hole," because most people who catch a bullet there don't survive.
To worsen matters, I'm told that I repeatedly refused to give the hospital consent to operate. I don't know why I was so obstinate, but somehow my friends were able to convince the hospital to override my objections and perform the life-saving surgeries I needed. I stayed in the hospital just shy of two months, enduring 12 surgeries and losing a whole lot of body parts, along with my entire recollection of those first few weeks.
One of the major life-saving surgeries I received was a Whipple procedure , a complex surgery normally given to people with pancreatic cancer, in which several organs are removed and the remaining organs are reconnected in a way that allows the patient to live. Today I walk among the rest of the population minus a colon, a gallbladder, my right kidney, a portion of my pancreas, a bile duct, a duodenum, and two-thirds of my stomach.
I'm also missing the bullet, the 9mm scrap of metal that caused all this damage. Immediately after I was shot, the surgeons didn't want to risk digging around looking for it, so they left it there. A year and change later, I eventually entreated one of them to remove it during one of my numerous surgeries, as it had wiggle-wormed its way closer to my skin surface and was practically poking out under my rib cage.
I was hyper-paranoid, terrified that someone would break out a gun. In total, I wound up undergoing 36 surgeries over the course of three years.
As you might imagine, I still have some lingering health issues that doctors haven't been able to resolve, but I've learned to cope with them. The impact of the shooting on my mental health, though, showed up in surprising ways.
I endured bouts of PTSD during the first few months after the shooting. For a while, I was terrified of being in a car going over 35mph, and I'm not exactly sure why, since driving doesn't seem to have anything in common with guns. I suspect it was the fear of losing control of my body in the face of that kind of speed, but eventually the fear faded away. My first few forays back into attending our regular Sunday second line parades were particularly loaded.
I was hyper-paranoid, terrified that someone would break out a gun, start shooting, and I would be too frail to run and protect myself. His captain saved him from punishment. The said it was like some one put a red hot poker to his foot and hit it with a sledge hammer.
He still suffers from the PTSD as well. He trained and was friends with Chris. My grandpa got hit in the cheek with shrapnel from a mortar in Vietnam.
He was given the Purple Heart, but denied accepting it because men under him lost limbs and their life. He still has a noticeable scar. Great man too, I love him. Felt like a baseball bat hit me; but with no pain. This was followed by a buzzing feeling for seconds then the severe achy pain set in. Once I got back, I was diagnosed with a spiral fracture.
Less painful than I thought it would be, but it was still up there! Honestly did not feel pain when I got hit, just this weird wave of feeling hot and wet on my left side. The pain definitely came after once a tourniquet was applied. At first I thought it was a bee sting because it sounded like bees flying by. The bee noises were bullets flying by. It felt like a hot fire poker along the path of the bullet. We were camping and like an hour and a half to a hospital.
The burning lasted the entire time until morphine got in. Was in a walking boot for months due to tendon and nerve damage. No bones were damaged but my foot is still numb on top due to nerve damage and it always hurts. I always feel it and if anything hits the entry or exit points or the scar from surgery to remove bullet fragments it send weird tingles up my leg. Definitely changed my life. I was Christmas Day, my birthday.
I was hunting with a guy who had taken it upon himself to teach me a hobby and a means to live off the wild as a way to try and curb my anger and antisocial behavior. The guy with whom I hunted was named Barry. Barry had a lot of land, a couple hundred acres of forest land he used for hunting, tracking, preparedness etc…,.
We were out that day with the dogs, celebrating my birthday and Christmas by being a little reckless and gathering what we killed for a big Christmas dinner. It was extremely cold and we were all wearing multiple layers and coveralls. I had on a set of regular fatigues, a thick pair of mossy oak pants, my thick jacket and a pair of full bodied coveralls which were made for cold. I was nearly a walking camouflaged thermal ball of danger.
The nephew had a shotgun and he was walking about 20 yards or so off to my right. We were hunting duck and a few other birds at the time. For some reason, this kid had buckshot loaded instead of duck shot. With bullets, it all comes down to shot placement and passage—which, without the gift of surgical precision that no gunman will ever have, is another way of saying it comes down to luck. He recounts the story of a young man in Lebanon who survived after being shot six times.
One of the six bullets stopped inside his pericardium, the narrow space between the heart and its thin protective membrane. Amazingly, the patient was alert and speaking lucidly to the doctors. You can't assume anything, says Nair. Bullets can bounce, ricochet, and change vector under the skin. So, what can bystanders do when confronted with gun violence?
First, if possible, stop the bleeding. Swelling and discoloration are signs of hemorrhaging anyone can recognize. You can control hemorrhaging by applying manual pressure, or by fastening a tourniquet—improvised or commercial—high and tight on the limb. What else is there to do?
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