Editor’s note: This column went to press right before the announcement that nearly 1,400 local health care workers would lose their jobs due to the impending closure of HSHS Sacred Heart and St. Joseph’s hospitals and the departure of Prevea Health from the region. As the author, Eric Rasmussen, later wrote on Facebook, “Sometimes the timing changes the entire message.”

For a healthy guy with a decent amount of common sense, I sure seem to spend a lot of time in hospitals.

Last summer, I was relaxing on our patio when one of the yellowjackets that had been innocently hanging around for weeks stung me on my pointer toe. I applied some ice and commenced whining about the pain in hopes of earning some sympathy from my wife. Then I started to grow hot. And itchy. My entire backside erupted in hives. The time for professional help had come. After checking in at Marshfield Medical Center’s emergency room, I passed out in the waiting area. Two EpiPens later, my blood pressure was still dangerously low, so the attending doctor recommended an overnight stay. Unfortunately, there weren’t any open beds in Eau Claire, so I was treated to a late-night ambulance ride to Marshfield, Wisconsin. My symptoms abated a few hours after I arrived, and my wife – this time with all the sympathy I could hope for – made the trip over to pick me up.

This past Thanksgiving, I was installing snow guards on a garage roof when the base of the extension ladder slid out from under me. Instead of riding it down, I opted for a tuck-and-roll strategy, and my backside landed on one of the ladder rails while my foot twisted underneath. With the help of my dad and son, I hobbled inside, took some ibuprofen, and laid down. An ill-advised shower attempt that afternoon exposed the need for medical attention, and a subsequent CT scan and X-ray revealed I was the proud owner of a severely bruised tailbone and a broken ankle. A few days later, the orthopedic doctor at Marshfield Medical Center explained the need for screws to stabilize the ankle, and a day after that, I was sporting a fresh surgical scar, a cast, and one of those knee scooters. They look like fun. They’re actually terrifying. People with major injuries shouldn’t be allowed to go that fast.

”

As a teacher, I feel a connection with my healthcare brothers and sisters – many argue that I, too, am underpaid and underappreciated for completing a stressful job critical to our community’s health. But I have to say, no displeasure over making sophomores read The Great Gatsby compares to the smell that accompanied the removal of my cast at the post-op appointment.

ERIC RASMUSSEN

Healthcare professionals work demanding jobs, and considering what they accomplish (in my case, saving my life and making sure I can still walk), they don’t get paid nearly enough. The stress of dealing with allegedly healthy guys like me day after day must be monumental. They are a critical and underappreciated part of our community. As a teacher, I feel a connection with my healthcare brothers and sisters – many argue that I, too, am underpaid and underappreciated for completing a stressful job critical to our community’s health. But I have to say, no displeasure over making sophomores read The Great Gatsby compares to the smell that accompanied the removal of my cast at the post-op appointment.

Five years ago, I went to bed one night with some stomach pain, which wasn’t any better the following morning. By third hour the following school day, I was in agony, so I contacted the secretary to request a substitute. The pain got worse until that evening when I summoned my wife, who was hosting a farm-to-table dinner at The Informalist, to take me to HSHS Sacred Heart Hospital. A few hours later, we had a diagnosis: acute pancreatitis, likely caused by gallstones. I was admitted and stayed in the hospital for a few days. They never found the stones, but they decided to remove my gall bladder anyway.

A couple weeks later, after the incisions had nearly healed, I received something curious in the mail: a thank you note, signed by all the nurses who had assisted me during my stay. It didn’t make any sense. They were thanking me? All I did was lay there. They were the ones who softened my pain, fed me, cut me open, and took out the defective parts.

Every once in a while, current and former students write letters thanking me for the time we spent together. Every note I’ve ever received is taped to the back of a closet door in my classroom, and I flip through them often. This time, when my cast is removed, my ankle is healed, and I’m back to walking without concern, I will be sending notes to all the professionals who helped heal me. My life wouldn’t be what it is without them. It’s the least I can do.