Brent Hartinger and Michael Jensen are a gay “digital nomad” couple — two men who travel the world continuously, living in different countries for anywhere from one to three months at a time. Subscribe to their newsletter at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.
Head injuries can bleed a lot. I mean a lot a lot.
I’d heard this before, but now I know it for a fact. That’s because I fell and hit my head hard during our recent month in Oslo, Norway.
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Hard enough to bleed, well, a lot.
But now I’m getting ahead of myself. Here’s how it all went down.
Brent and I had been swimming at the outdoor public pool in a park near our apartment for several weeks. As you enter the pool area, you’re supposed to step through this small trough of water to wash dirt or debris off your feet.
The first time I walked through the trough, I checked to ensure it wasn’t slippery.
It wasn’t slick, so I assumed it had been coated with a slip-resistant coating. Excellent! Nothing to worry about! There’s a handrail in the picture above, but I never even noticed it.
On our last swim day, which was chilly and a little rainy, I finished my workout and climbed out of the pool into the bracing air. When I reached the trough, I stepped into it like I had a half-dozen times before.
What happened next is a blur. One minute, I was enjoying the drizzle on my face; the next, I lay in that shallow pool of water, shock ringing through my body like a gong being struck.
Brent, who had wisely chosen to walk the path around the trough on the way out, heard an unsettling crack, as if something had hit the ground. A concrete wall separated us, but he says he instantly knew exactly what had happened.
He ran to my side, splashing through the water, and he said he asked me if I was okay, but I don’t remember that. I do remember him being nearby and shouting, “Help! We need help over here!”
At some point, I sat up, hesitantly touching the back of my head. When I saw how bloody it was, I thought, That can’t be good.
Then the pain hit — an avalanche of it crashing through my skull, bouncing off of one side and back to the other. It hurt so much that it was hard to have coherent thoughts.
Then Brent was back at my side with someone else — a lifeguard?
They started helping me up, and I saw more blood dripping down my face, onto my chest, and down to my swimming trunks. Even then, I knew I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I suppose I was in shock.
Instead, my mind pulled into itself, down to the core, where we become less human and more animal. I wasn’t Michael at that moment. I was just a hurt, scared, and confused creature.
Brent and the lifeguard — I’d later learn his name was Oskar — finally got me to the lifeguard office. Then Oskar and the other lifeguards started treating my bloodied head.
I heard talking, but I wasn’t sure what was being said. I felt bandages applied to my head, but I was still soaking wet, and the office wasn’t heated. I began to shiver. Brent started wrapping me in the towels we’d brought from home.
He must have gone to the locker room to get them, I thought. When did he leave?
My head cleared enough for me to realize Brent and Oskar were talking to an emergency operator, trying to decide if I needed an ambulance. Brent relayed to the operator exactly what had happened.
Despite the bandages, blood still ran down my face.
By now, I felt coherent enough to speak. “Let me talk to the operator,” I mumbled.
Someone held the phone to my face. The operator asked me if I’d ever lost consciousness.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said.
Another question.
“No, my neck doesn’t hurt. Well, not much.”
Someone asked me what day it was — and I didn’t know.
Brent immediately said, somewhat cheekily, “Uh, I’m not sure he knew the day even before he hit his head.”
We are self-employed nomads, after all. I also sometimes forget what city we’re in.
But I could name the month and the year, reassuring the emergency operator and Brent.
I felt embarrassed being fussed over so much, so I kept trying to hold the compress to my head myself. But each time, Oskar kindly said, “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
Finally, it was decided that I didn’t need an ambulance, but I did need to go to the emergency room — right away.
Brent called an Uber. Oskar led us out to the street and insisted on waiting with us until the Uber came. He also continued to put pressure on my injury.
“Is there still a lot of blood?” I asked Brent.
“It’s not too bad,” he said. “Don’t worry about it right now.”
But I could see a lot of blood.
“Take some pictures,” I said to him.
“What? I’m not taking pictures at a time like this!”
“If you think I’m not writing about this,” I said, “you’re crazy.”
He shook his head but took a couple of pictures.
But after that, he didn’t look much reassured. I now felt anxious myself. Did I have a concussion? After all, I had hit my head hard. Might my brain be hemorrhaging as we sat there?
The Uber arrived, but by then, my shaking had grown worse. I also worried about getting the car seat wet or, worse, bloody. What if the driver took one look and refused to take me?
But Oskar quickly explained everything to the driver, Richard, who immediately said, “I know a faster route to the hospital. I’ll get you there as quickly as possible.”
Once I was in the car, Oskar leaned in and said, “Good luck.”
“Thank you for everything,” I said.
Richard did drive fast.
But this turned out to be not such a great thing. Because of our speed, the car swayed back and forth, especially on the turns. I’d felt dizzy before — now I felt downright nauseous. Once again, my mind retreated into itself — but my nausea didn’t go away.
All I could think was: I will not throw up in this nice man’s car. I will not throw up…
I felt Brent’s hand on my leg. “Are you okay?” he said.
“I think I’m going to puke,” I said.
He quickly handed me a plastic bag. Later, he told me Oskar had given it to him for the car ride.
I started retching, but nothing came up. Richard seemed more concerned about me than worried about his car.
Then we reached the hospital, and Richard instantly had my door open and was helping me out.
“Good luck,” he said.
Within minutes, I was in a hospital room. I had never properly dried off and still hadn’t gotten out of my wet clothes. Now, I shivered almost uncontrollably.
“Do you have any blankets?” Brent asked the nurse — and she did. They wrapped them around me, which helped, but only a little.
A doctor arrived.
I never got his name, but even in my addled state, I could see he was young and handsome. I took it as a good sign that I noticed that.
Dr. McDreamy checked me out, examining my head, looking into my eyes for dilation, and my ears for something too. He gently touched my hands and arms, then my legs and feet, making sure I could still feel everything.
He asked me a series of questions, and I answered them all.
Finished, he said, “You’re lucky. It looks like only a minor concussion.”
“But he’ll need stitches, right?” Brent asked.
Dr. McDreamy nodded.
“That’s what I get for having a bald spot,” I said. “Less protection when I fall.”
Dr. McDreamy smiled. “But it makes it easier to sew you up.”
After the stitches, the nurse cleaned me up with a sponge. I admit to being surprised by all the blood that had apparently been on my face. I was shocked again later when Brent showed me the earlier photos I’d insisted he take.
Head injuries really do bleed a lot a lot.
Dr. McDreamy returned and said, “I’ve been consulting with my supervisor, and he thinks it wouldn’t be crazy for you to have a CT scan. Everything looks good, which is why I didn’t recommend it before. But you’re on the bubble, age-wise. The choice is up to you.”
Brent and I asked him more questions about the procedure. Then Brent finally asked what I’d been thinking: “How much will the CT scan cost?”
Dr. McDreamy gave us a puzzled look. “There’s no extra charge. It’s all one fee for whatever you need.”
No charge for the CT scan? I thought. That’s not how things work in America.
We had the scan, which turned up nothing.
“If you have any questions or concerns, please call and let us know,” said Dr. McDreamy.
“Good luck,” said the nurse.
A few minutes later, I’d been discharged.
The total cost of our visit, which included treatment by Dr. McDreamy, a fantastic nurse, anesthesia and stitches, a CT scan, and a brief consultation with a specialist about the scan, came to…
$166 USD.
“Good luck,” the cashier said as we left.
A lot stands out about my experience, but what stands out the most is how decent and humane Norwegian society seems to be.
At every point, nothing seemed to matter except taking care of me and getting me the help I needed as quickly as possible.
There was no accident report to fill out at the pool in case I decided to sue. No one quizzed me about why I fell, trying to ensure they wouldn’t be blamed.
I learned later that there’s only one emergency room in Oslo, but it was relatively deserted when we arrived. I suspect this is partly because everyone in Norway has affordable access to good healthcare, so the emergency room isn’t clogged with uninsured people with no other care option.
During admittance, they asked for my Norwegian ID number. When I said I was American and didn’t have one, they just needed Brent to fill out a small card with my name, address, phone number, and birth date.
I wasn’t asked for proof of insurance or a credit card and wasn’t forced to sign a form saying I was responsible for all charges.
And the care itself was based on what I needed, with no concern for cost, including that CT scan.
Of course, none of this was “free” or even cheap. Norwegians pay the full cost with their taxes. It helps that they’re a wealthy country.
But my home country, America, is even wealthier. And depending on how you calculate it, overall taxes in Norway are only slightly higher than in America.
When it comes to healthcare, America makes different choices. Americans care much more about individual wealth, which, yes, probably leads to more innovation, including medical advancements, that benefit the whole world.
But back in America, Brent and I pay a total premium of almost $22,000 a year for an insurance policy with a $6000 deductible — and we pay another 20% of all treatment beyond that. Fortunately, the full cost is partially subsidized by the ACA/Obamacare.
Still, if I’d hit my head in America, I can’t imagine what I would’ve had to pay for all this treatment. A CT scan in an American emergency room starts at $2000 and can go much higher.
I think America cares too much about individual wealth — and not enough about individuals.
Norway has its problems. But even before my accident, I looked longingly at how they lived. Now I’m downright jealous.
I think back on everyone who wished me good luck: Oskar, the lifeguard. Richard, the Uber driver. My nurse. Even the hospital cashier.
But I didn’t need their good wishes. By having my accident in Norway, I’d already had my share of good luck.
Michael Jensen is a screenwriter, author, and half of a couple of traveling gay digital nomads. Subscribe to their free travel newsletter here.
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