Crunch

I am looking after a 19 year old right now. Saturday night he was drinking with buddies and they got all fired up. "Somebody punch me in the face!" he said. "Do it!!" So they did.

He has a broken jaw now.

I met him in the early hours of Sunday morning. He was still pretty intoxicated, his mouth was dripping with blood and he smelled like vomit and Axe body spray. My heart melted.

I gently explained his upcoming operation and gave him drugs so he wouldn't get a hangover. I spoke to his parents on the phone, asking them to give him the benefit of the doubt and be kind to him. I patted his foot as he talked to them.

This kid is getting nothing but scorn from my fellow residents. He asked his friend to hit him and now he's taking up space in our grid-locked hospital, costing the system two thousand dollars a day. He's going to need surgery to correct the jaw, plus about 6 weeks of rehab, tube feeding, ongoing clinic visits and expensive painkillers.

But...I remember being 19. I remember the stupid shit we'd get up to. Throwing shopping carts around, packing 12 people into someone's Mom's volvo and speeding through the night, getting drunk on $4 vodka and vomiting on people's front lawns. The only difference between me and this kid is luck. I did so many stupid things (including drunk fight clubs) and it was only luck that stopped me from ending up in hospital (...ahem. More than I did).

Docs and nurses who are mean to these drunk kids, who refuse them painkillers and fluids, who lecture them when they're injured, surprise me. I suppose there are people who got through med school and university without getting into any trouble. I just didn't met them on my way through.

I like to think that my years of stupid, reckless behaviour give me an edge of compassion. Bring me your drunks, your bottle-lacerations, your huddled pukers. For I am Sam, Patron Saint of Drunk Teenagers. And I'll take care of you...