By Mike Jacobsen

I’m elated to be with the EMT’s of International SOS. They are fabulous and I wish they could administer my care. The five-hour ambulance trek was uneventful and smooth. Thank Goodness.

We arrive at Roman Catholic Hospital in Windhoek, another private facility. As a foreigner I’ve been taken to private facilities, as they are the best Africa has to offer, and primarily serve diplomats, tourists, or people with money. The typical local will never see the insides of these walls. There are public hospitals, however I’m warned by the EMT’s there is no way I want to be delivered to one of them.

Upon arrival the first task at hand is how will you pay for your estimated stay. No payment, no entry and insurance isn’t accepted. Credit once more. I’m hoping that since my cards had been declined this morning for the ambulance ride they’ll sail through from my earlier approval. Not my luck. Denied again, so back on the phone once again, just to get admitted. Once cleared, now for x-rays—oops, we need payment too and wouldn’t you guess, denied again and I just got off the phone.

While I appreciate credit card firms being cautious about fraudulent charges, it went way beyond ridiculous. Three more charges later this week from the same facility for other tests, etc., where denied each time and I had to spend time on my cell clearing them with promises future charges would go through. It made no difference whether it was Amex, Capital One, or Citibank. This simple struggle just added expense, frustration, and time, when all I wanted is to begin to heal.

Roman Catholic is modern yet dated. It’s a flashback to entering a facility of the 1970’s. It’s clean yet things look dated and dirty. My doctor seems competent but annoyed with spending more than a few minutes with me at a time. I pepper him with questions at every chance and all he wants to do is leave each time. I discover I have several broken ribs but not sure how many. There are multiple breaks in my scapula and I have bruised lungs and some minor fluid buildup. The doctor’s concern is I may catch pneumonia.  He indicates it’ll be about a week before I’ll be safe to travel the long distance home and will reevaluate along the way.

I spend the week lying in bed. The nursing staff here is friendlier than before, however their hygiene is no better and I encounter the same needle fights. I’m partially cleaned but my backside remains covered in sand. By the end of the week, not moving combined with the sand grinding into my skin produces huge bedsores. My door is usually open and there is a steady flow of people back and forth through the hall. At any moment a stranger could enter at will and some did. I’m alone and my only connection with the world is my mobile, as they don’t have a phone as well. My wallet and phone are my only ticket out and the worry of theft sets in as well. Thus I clutch my phone and wallet in my only good hand 24/7 for the week.

Fortunately there are a couple foreign exchange nursing interns here from Europe. They come from a different environment and it shines through quite quickly. They’re friendlier and take far better care than any of their peers. I quickly endear myself to them at every chance. Two days later one of them agrees to go to a local store and get me a mobile Internet adaptor for my laptop. One more connection to the world and I get the word out.

By the end of the week I’m accustomed to the hospital routine. I’ve gone through phases of depression and loneliness, just wanting a friend, and being on constant vigilance of watching out for my life. The pain has been excruciating, only subsiding with drugs. Simple breathing alone brings stabbing chest pains. I’m still not confident in what’s wrong and simply want to get out and seek better care. The thought of my blog and the good stories it will eventually make are at times the only thing keeping me sane and the tears at bay.

Surprisingly the food is superb, three meals a day and more than I can eat. Oddly, I think the cooks make every effort to give me foods impossible or very messy to eat. I’m right handed and only have the use of my left. They bring me a steak covered in mushroom gravy. How do you eat that with only an off hand?  Try peeling an orange with only one hand and it goes on.

A deep burning desire to be home consumes my mind. To be in a place where I no longer have to worry, where I have a support system, and where I know I can rely on the medical opinions burns deep within.

My driving question to the doctor all week is when will it be safe for me to get on a plane and make the long journey home no matter the pain? I.e. I won’t die. Five days later the doc gives me clearance and I quickly secure a first class ticket home with prearranged medical assistance departing the next day.

I leave the hospital in a wheelchair and the only thing I’ll miss is the three fresh squeezed guava juices a day. I’m fortunate to be alive and grateful to not be paralyzed. The accident could have been far worse and I know while I got the best of African healthcare it’s no place I ever want to be again. I’m fortunate it happened in Namibia. It’s far more modern than the rest of what I’ve seen. I’m fortunate to have the means to afford what locals will never see. I could have easily been in a facility far worse with even lower quality care.

While I was well prepared with immunizations and travel/medical evacuation insurance, in hindsight if something like this ever happened again, I’d have my emergency contact immediately contact an embassy for assistance. A lending hand through the admittance and hours of phone calls would have been a godsend. By the time the idea had been brought to mind the fires had been put out and I was biding my time to escape. By the end of the week a simple visitor, a friendly face, would have been grand.

I’m injected full of drugs for the long journey home, with a $2,000 cell phone bill and $42,000 in medical bills. I’m hoping my useless to-date travel insurance will reimburse.

After a 28-hour journey home and over the next several months I discover the totality of my injuries; eight fractures in 6 ribs, multi-fragmentary scapula breaks, torn disc in the L4-L5 region causing sciatica, and a torn labrum in my right hip. Six months of physical therapy and most pains other than hip pain while walking have subsided. I undergo an unsuccessful hip surgery attempting to repair the labral tear. I now live with lifelong hip issues, which regularly cause pain and have been promised it will lead to an early hip replacement as it gradually deteriorates.

Author Mike Jacobsen set off on a 12-month journey around the world in 2009 and blogged about his experiences at www.findingflattop.com. Unfortunately, his accident in Namibia brought his round-the-world trip to an end.

If you missed Mike's entire story, be sure to read Part 1, 2, and 3.