Last time we ended with me walking down the stairs to a vault that I knew I couldn’t open – with to robbers tailing me, one with a submachine gun poking me in the back. That was not the worst part of that evening. The worst part was the few seconds were I wasn’t sure whether they only wanted some money or if they might harm us.
That part, on the other hand, was without a doubt the worst moment in my entire life. Luckily, when we first walked down into the basement, I didn’t get a chance to think that they might drag my wife with us, or do something even worse to threathen me, when I couldn’t open the safe. The only thing I think is that I’m about to get the beating of my life, and then they’ll leave.
Paintball or real bullets?
They end up shooting me in the thigh at a distance of two meters, and if the first shot wasn’t a brainless act, the second one certainly was. They are not shooting me, because I won’t tell them where the key is, but because I keep insisting that it is at the neighbours. After that, they are kind enough to give me a second chance of maybe 10 seconds, though it was probably no more than five. I don’t really know, because at this moment, I’m lying on the floor, in pain, with a ringing in my ears, while I keep reiterating (very loudly now), that I can’t get the key
Then falls the second shot, while I’m lying on the floor, and it is now that even if I’d been so psychopathic to lie thus far, they’d still not have gotten the key. Because before I can answer, they sprint up the stairs and out the door. As might be expected, I’ve got a serious level of adrenaline coursing through my body, because at this point, I’m still not quite sure whether I’ve been shot or they just had the most powerful paintball gun in the world. In any case, I run up the stairs to the best of my ability to make sure they are not taking their anger out on my family. Halfway up the stairs I realise I’ve been shot, as blood is pouring out of a hole in the center of my thigh.
A big thank you goes out to the inventor of morphine
After having locked the door and made sure they have disappeared, an ambulance is called. Now we have to wait for 15 minutes and it is during those 15 minutes I become certain taht it wasn’t a paintball gun but the real deal. Yes, it hurt like hell, but what I remember most clearly was how insanely thirsty I was. The thirst was definitely more overpowering than the pain, until I got some water.
My wife got me some bandages improvised from whatever was at hand, so I wouldn’t lose more blood than necessary. A very surreal scenario in my own house. When the ambulance arrived, I was given some morphine and I’d hereby like to give a big thank you to the guy who invented morphine.
Surgery the same night
Already fairly early in the procedure at the hospital, the doctors are optimistic about my recovery, so my thoughts start circling around how best to protect the family against the press – probably even before I hit the surgery table. Everybody, I manage to reach before going under anaesthesia, are told they are not to comment at all. I’ll have to deal with it when I wake up and have a chance to talk to someone who knows more about how best to handle these media situations.
Four open wounds the next day
I wake up with a start around 10 o’clock the following day, which if I recall correctly is five hours after going under anaesthesia. What I don’t know at this time is that I haven’t been stitched up but have four open wounds. The doctors can’t suture me until three days later, when they are certain that all dead tissue, dirt, etc. is out. I really want to get to my phone to hear how the family is doing. Before I’m allowed to do this, I’m told to pee in a bottle, or a plastik bucket designed to pee in when you are confined to bed. The doctors have run some scans and tell me about a bladder that might explode, because the anaesthetics affect my feeling of having to pee.
There’s no way I’m allowed to get to my room, until I’ve peed. Initially, I didn’t complain, because I already felt like a heeltap is on its way. It turns out it isn’t. This isn’t made easier by the fact that there’s a senile lady in recovery yelling “HELP ME!!” every other minute. So first I have to time it, so I start the second after she yells, so I have as much room to work with – knowing all the time that I’d be fighting a losing battle when she yelled again. The pressure is building for every 10 seconds after a yell, and for what feels like 20 minutes I succumb to the pressure every time. Some times she yells after one minute, which isn’t helping at all, and at other times she waits three minutes, so I spend the last minute thinking “When will she yell again”.
At one point, I get so desperate I decide to crawl out of bed despite my four large open wounds, thinking I’ll have more luck standing than lying down. I do feel a certain success, until I hear footsteps approaching. It is now only a question about seconds, so I’m very optimistic about getting started, even if it is my nurse, but of course, I miss it by a second. So when she pulls the curtain to ask how I’m doing, I again have to give up. Ultimately, I give up and manage to explain to the nurse that I have to get to my phone ASAP.
Even the chimney is secured
I’m very happy that we have all managed to go on after that night with as few scares as possible. Sure, we adults might be a bit more “jumpy” than earlier. The house now looks like Fort Knox, and we’ve taken all precautions, even the chimney is secured, if some robber tries that entrance. All in all, we have almost gotten our ordinary life back, and I hope this blog answer all the questions from the many poker journalists.
That way, I hope I can avoid having to repeat myselv when I start traveling around to tourneys in March, where PokerStars EPT London take place.