Do you think you might've crippled yourself in some tropical shithole? Let's check.

How do I know if I'm crippled?

Well, can you walk? If not, why? If:

1. Your tendons are no longer attached to your muscles
2. Your left leg is a bone peg-leg with a foot dangling on it

You're probably going to be crippled for a while.

How do I know if I'm in a shithole?

Count all the flies in your field of vision. For every degree above 90 Fahrenheit, and every percentage above 90% humidity, add 1 to your fly count. Then divide that by the number of air conditioners in a 10 mile radius.

If your answer is undefined, you're in a shithole. Thank your friends for bringing you there.

The Ultimate Guide to Surviving Your New Reality

"Medical" Attention

First things first, we need to get you medical attention. The best that your region has to offer. Unfortunately, the best is a chiropractor operating out of his kitchen.

Make sure you vet him professionally. First, does he adopt a pseudonym that belongs to a baseball player famous for crushing beers on a cross-country flight? Check. Second, are there any cats eating lizards in the treatment area? Check, and check.

He'll take one look at your leg and tell you what you already know: "That's fucked up bro you should probably go to a hospital." At least he gives you a ice pack.

You're on your path to healing.

Leaving the country when you can't walk

You have two choices: Take a 14 hour bus to the capital and go to a hospital. But you're probably turned off of this country's medical community from the last interaction, so you'll choose the other option: Take a 4 hour bus into the nearest town, take a 2 hour flight to a nearby country renowned for its medical care, and visit a hospital there.

Since you're taking option two, it'll be a few days before you can ship out. You'll still need to muster up food and necessities, but good luck finding crutches. You can either let the flies lift you around town, or you can buy some popsicles from the corner store, shove em in your boot, and lace em up good.

And since you've made it this far, your hotel has a treat for you on Valentine's Day:

Your Guardian Angel

Who is that at the airport? A Dutch person? Not that special, they're everywhere except the Netherlands.

Not just any Dutch person, a Dutch person you met once. Who is on your same flight!

Rejoice, because you now have someone to lean on when you walk to the hospital. When the doctors tell you that you're going to need major reconstructive surgery that week and that it'll be two months before you can walk, he'll go get you crutches so that you can think about it for a few days.

The Decision

Now, you have to make a decision. Do you stay here, dependent on strangers for months, needing a major surgery, or do you go back home? Sure, you're fluent in the language at home, but you'll be at your parent's place because you already sold everything in the States to live the Digital Nomad life.

But the last few days have been magical. Do you really want to leave this all behind?

Yes.

Take a few last sad looking pictures while contemplating how you got here:

There's a bed getting warmed up for you back in the States!

Post Surgery

You've got through the worst part. You know you can do anything. You throw away the pain pills - you already can't walk, but you're not coming out of this with an opiod addiction on top.

Your town is so excited to have you home, the local junkie drives a uhaul through your barn at 60MPH the day after your surgery.

He runs away before visiting your bedside, but he leaves his drivers license on the ground so you know he was there.

After two weeks with your leg above your heart, you're ready to get your cast off.

It's gruesome yet marvelous. At least for 5 minutes, before they angle your leg down and put a bigger cast on:

Shit.

Festive. Green. Just in time for St Patrick's day. Your birthday! You can do 2 more weeks in a cast. And you do, just fine. They take it off. And give you a blue one.

If they told you from week 1 that this would be the case, you would have planned. You finally buy a leg condom so you can take showers a little easier.

Lo and behold, two months later, you're cast free. You've graduated to a boot!

Everything is smaller on that side of your body, but you get your first shower on that leg in 2 months and it's glorious. Then you sleep for the first time with a blanket touching your leg, and the ability to stretch when you wake up. Holy hot damn.

Postlude

All the hassling, falling on your face on pavement while you're on crutches, laying down for the majority of the day, it's a thing of the past. You get to learn to walk again now.

But that's another guide for another day. Buy my Gumroad course, How To Walk Like the Pros!