Getting shot

Whenever your workday involves evaluation by two trauma surgeons, you probably should have stayed in bed. Let me explain.

Sunshine And Lollipops

One day last spring, I pulled into the range and was pleased to see it empty. By virtue of being honorably retired, I have access to our non-public police shooting range whenever the department isn’t using the facility. After setting up targets and my portable shooting table, I got the gun-that-shall-remain-nameless from its case. All was ready to test fire the latest “revolutionary” firearm “that will change the industry” — at least this week.

I loaded up a couple of magazines and shoved one into the gun. The sun smiled down, a gentle wind blew and I think a bluebird flew past as I dropped the bolt into battery and shouldered the gun.

Click. Hmm. I immediately ran the bolt and tried again. Click. Growing confounded, I ran the bolt one more time. As my fingers released the operating lever, things got interesting.

As the bolt picked up the next round from the magazine there was a demonstration of common high school physics — two objects cannot physically occupy the same space at the same time.

In this case, the two objects were cartridges. The first had stubbornly remained sitting in the chamber while the newcomer insolently slammed into its rear. The round in the chamber exploded while the second, not wanting to miss out on the fun, likewise detonated.

The Big Bang

Instantly I knew something had gone massively wrong. My chest and hands were numb, my shooting glasses had been knocked askew and my ears were ringing in spite of hearing protection. It was then I noticed several jagged shards of brass sticking out of my forearm.
“Dang it,” I thought to myself with a calm I didn’t know I possessed. It was immediately apparent I had experienced an out-of-battery detonation, something I had seen before and knew not to be wholly uncommon. “Okay,” I thought, “it happens. Hitch up your foundation garments, safe the gun and pick the brass out of your arm.” No big deal.

Remembering my training from the Cop Shop days, I thought it prudent to inspect myself for other injuries because I’ve known people who have been shot or seriously injured and didn’t even know it at first. I told myself I was being overly dramatic for such a mundane event but performed the self-check anyway.

My stomach felt a little numb but I thought it was just due to the concussion of the not-inconsiderable blast. Rubbing around under my shirt and feeling no bits of metal or other debris, I nonchalantly thought “Hmmm, I must have spilled my water bottle when this happened.”

Then I realized I didn’t have a water bottle with me.

In horror, I saw my three left fingers were slicked with bright red blood — my blood, the sweet, sweet precious fluid, the very essence of life. It’s one of my most important possessions, something I really don’t want to see anywhere outside of a test tube at the doctor’s office. Now it was slowly spreading across the front of my khaki shirt. Such things get your attention.

“Well,” I thought almost matter-of-fact, “I’ve been shot in the stomach with a large-caliber bullet.” Then the magnitude of my predicament struck me.

Dry Mouth

As a practicing hypochondriac who is wholly capable of turning a minor gas pain into a fatal case of liver flukes, this realization positively set me over the edge. In a split-second, I knew I was dying and the thought made me inexplicably angry rather than upset or afraid.

A few seconds later good sense returned and I got scared spitless.

Fortunately, after a minute or so of panic and hyperventilation, I suddenly remembered what a nameless instructor told me long ago: “If you’re worried about how bad you’re hurt, you’re not hurt that bad.” It was strangely calming advice.

I then lifted my shirt and examined the new 3/8″ belly button just above the factory original. It was bleeding, but not gushing or spurting so loss of blood — at least externally — wasn’t an immediate problem. I had concerns about the damage done to my innards but after a few seconds of studying my pulse rate, breathing and checking for signs of liver flukes, I decided it might be serious but not immediately.

Getting down to business, I knew I needed help and a call to 911 seemed prudent. As I started to dial my cell phone, I suddenly realized a dispatch of “man shot on the police firing range” would bring medics, fire department, police and sheriff’s department, soon followed by local and regional media, a host of random “red light chasers” and probably a food truck, marching band and Dog the Bounty Hunter with full camera crew. I really didn’t feel like being the star of such a nine-ring circus so I just loaded up the truck — admittedly very rapidly and haphazardly — and drove myself to the hospital.

Drive To Survive

On the way, I called a friend who was working as the afternoon supervisor on the police department. When I told him of my situation, he was incredulous. “Pull over now and I’ll drive you in!” he exclaimed. In my best John Wayne manner, I said “Naw, it’s just a fl-fl-fl-flesh wound and I’ll meet you at the ER. I’m f-f-f-fine.” I mostly meant it.

We both arrived at the ER at the same time and meeting in the parking lot, I could tell he was impressed with my bloody shirt and rampant machismo, or something analogous.

One enjoyable moment was when the young nursing student at the front door, charged with enforcing COVID mask protocols and temperature checks, blurted out the classic, “Are you okay?”

Well, um, not really, but thanks for asking.

I was officially declared a “GSW,” medical shorthand for “Gunshot Wound” and hustled inside for various tests, but only after I bled a little on the admittance desk. One medical tip — if you encounter a long wait at the ER, try mentioning you’ve been shot. They will move you right to the front of the line just behind the heart attack victims. It made the day go by much quicker than I expected.

As I was quite healthy in the grand scheme of things, it was exciting to witness all the medical drama as the Guest of Honor. I’d have enjoyed it more if not for the whole hot-lead-in-my-guts thing.

Aftermath

I’m fine, though occasionally an odd movement will bring a reminder twinge of one formerly fine spring afternoon. The piece of brass is still there and my doctor tells me it will likely someday surface on its own — an event I simply can’t wait to experience. Physically there are no other after effects, though occasional bouts of hypochondria have me wondering when the brass will suddenly migrate to someplace important and instantly kill me.

At least it gives me something real to worry about beside deadlines and flukes.

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