A Gruesome Absence
You'll notice that I haven't posted anything on the blog since the new SyncopatedComics.com website launched. I'm sure there will be lulls in the future where I don't post for long periods, but this time, I have a somewhat unique excuse -- I've been in the hospital for the past five days. And, interestingly enough, the reason I post this explanation here is because my hospitalizing is related to my efforts in getting the next volume of SYNCOPATED published.
Let me explain...
Glenn Mott, whose stellar work you'll find in SYNCOPATED Vol.2 is planning on writing a piece for the next volume on an amazing old tugboat graveyard down in Staten Island. I don't want to reveal too much about Glenn's story, but I think it's fair to mention that Glenn and I decided last weekend to visit this tugboat graveyard and gather some information. Our goal was simple; take some reference shots for the illustrator who will be assigned to the segment, and try to wrangle an interview with the gentleman whose scrap metal yard the tugboats are beached near.
Well, in our trudging through the low-tide swamps where the boats are nested, I stepped on a large rusty spike, which went right through my sneaker, and about an inch-and-a-half into the bottom of my foot. So, as luck would have it, not only did a rusty spike jam up through my foot, but it took along with it fragments of my dirty old sneaker, and bacteria-laden salt-marshy mud.
I immediately knew that what had happened was quite bad, and I started yelling to Glenn that I was hurt (he wasn't near me when the accident occurred). In an adrenaline-rushed panic, I ran out f the woods that encircled the swamp. Across the street from the woods was a car wash -- I ran to the car wash, grabbed their hose without asking, and began washing the mud off of my feet. I pointed the hose into my sneaker, and what seemed like pints of blood began bubbling out of the shoe.
Glenn rushed me to the near-by Staten Island University Hospital emergency room, where they began treating the wound. It wasn't long before they informed me that I would have to undergo surgery, and likely spend a couple of nights at the hospital. I was incredulous, but as the pain increased, and the tests they ran looked more and more dire (positive bone scans, etc.), I resigned myself to the fact that if I didn't get the proper treatment, I'd be in for some real trouble.
At one point, the doctors told me that if I had simply washed the wound and bandaged it up really well, I would probably experience so much pain that I'd eventually give in and see a doctor. However, he said, if I had waited, let's say two weeks, there would have been a chance that they would have to amputate my foot due to the spread of infection. Scary, huh?
Anyway, as I said, I home now, but here I sit with a three-inch long, one-and-a-half-inch deep surgical laceration on the bottom of my foot, and a "picc" line in my arm that enters on the inside of my bicep (just above the elbow), and travels inside me, through my armpit and into my chest cavity where intra-venous antibiotics will be self-administered for the next six weeks. Fortunately, they've also given me a big bottle of Percocet tablets -- We'll see how long they last.
Don't think for a minute that any of this will keep Glenn and I from bringing you that tugboat graveyard piece -- We're planning on going back when I can walk again,,,