This didn’t happen at home. But nearly 470 kilometers away. Of course I traveled by motorcycle. Of course. With sports gear in my backpack, full of excitement for the day – and now: broken Achilles tendon and no chance to even attempt riding home.
Luckily my dad volunteers to pick me up. Thanks, Dad. At 9:30 PM I’m finally back in Switzerland – straight to the hospital. Registration, paperwork, the whole routine. You know it.
The checks start: blood pressure, ultrasound, X-ray – the classics. All routine. I sit there, waiting, and suddenly it happens: the police march into the emergency room. With a guy in handcuffs.
I stare. Everyone stares. The situation makes no sense. The guy spouts nonsense. Or was it just nerves? I don’t know. While I’m still trying to make sense of it, two or three more officers arrive. This time obviously injured. I sit there with my foot in a cast and wonder if I’ve accidentally wandered into a Netflix series.
It drags on. The night is long. Sometime around 2 AM I’m finally taken to the ward.
Welcome to the new reality.