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Informationen zum Autor In 2008, Rebecca Fogg walked away from her New York life and career in financial services to move to London, where she co-founded the Institute of Pre-Hospital Care at London’s Air Ambulance and continues to work, write and learn Scottish fiddle. This is her first book. Klappentext "After a freak accident, a young woman must recover from trauma and find what will make her whole again"-- Leseprobe 1 An Explosion in Brooklyn January 27, 2006. I've stayed awake until 2:30 a.m. obsessively revising a presentation for my new boss, determined to impress him with its elegant clarity in describing the marketing strategy for a new product. When I finally turn on the bathroom faucet to brush my teeth before bed, it issues a screaming jet of air instead of water. With barely a thought, I flush the toilet to check whether all the plumbing is misbehaving. I hear a loud noise, then notice a tiny spray of blood on the wall-brick red against shiny yellow tiles. Whose is that? Not yet alarmed, I glance right to discover a gaping wound in my forearm, about three and a half inches square, all blood gurgling over black Jell-O and pulled-taffy innards. Instantly, I become disoriented. To the sound of blood slap . . . slap . . . slapping against the floor, I stare at the gash, dumbly assuming that the nature of my predicament will become clear. The strategy works; I realize that the toilet has exploded, propelling a sharp hunk of porcelain through the inside of my right wrist, partially severing my dominant hand. This is bad, really bad. And it's happening to me. I look down to see myself standing in a large puddle of blood, whose rapid expansion begs immediate action. Still, my brain insists on one further second of reflection to mark an irreversible transition: The life I've been living is over. The next one, however long it lasts, begins now. Decorating the apartment in red as I go, I tear into the bedroom, lurch for the tabletop phone with my left hand, and dial 911 while heading back to the kitchen. I struggle to keep the phone pressed between shoulder and ear as I yank a dirty dish towel off the oven door handle and crumple it into my right wrist. Saturated with blood in seconds, it lands with a splosh when I dash it to the floor. I fling open a cabinet, grab a clean towel, and try again, but the blood soaks through that one, too. Realizing I'll never get ahead of it, I wrap another towel around the packed wound, one more around that, then stretch both arms overhead and squeeze the sodden wad as hard as I can with my left hand. Concurrently describing the nature of the emergency to the 911 operator, I can only convey its magnitude by verbally tracing the trail of blood, which is sprayed in feathery arcs on the walls, dribbling down the floor molding, gumming up the keys of my laptop, soaking into a basket of clean laundry, painting traffic lines on the rug, pooling in my shoes on the floor. And yet, I feel no pain. The operator reports that an ambulance has been dispatched and instructs me to stay on the line until it arrives. Certain I'll pass out before then, from loss of blood or simply the horror of the experience, I resolve to enlist a neighbor to meet the paramedics in the lobby of our apartment building, rather than risk the trip myself. I go to the door across the hall and start kicking it, unable to knock. "Somebody please help-I've had an accident!" After several such pleas, my neighbor opens the door. "Jesus Christ! Call 911!" he yells over his shoulder into the apartment. "I've already done that," I murmur. "Someone just needs to let the paramedics in when they get here." I drop the phone at his feet and sink to the hallway floor as other neighbors drift warily out of their apartments. Kneeling, head bowed and arms held high like a surrendering fugitive, I shiver in my little nightgown,...
